Modern Crusaders
by OsaNona22
Summary: Having escaped the final events of "The End of Time," The Master is on the hunt for the Eleventh Doctor, but instead comes face to face with his predecessor- or to be more accurate, his clone. Can an alliance be formed?
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Doctor Who

Modern Crusaders

Prologue/Chapter 1

"_Imagine  
Our planet floating silently in space  
Around it, a white dove flies--  
Forever circling  
Every one hundred years, the dove's wing  
Gently touches the face of the earth  
The time it would take for the feathered wing  
To wear this planet down to nothing  
Is eternity_

_Within eternity, time passes  
Within time, there is change  
Soon, the wing of the white dove  
Will touch our world again  
The dawn of a new Century  
Time for a new beginning"_

Secret Garden- Dawn of a New Century

* * *

London had never seen such chaos.

Well, not this London, anyway. Not the London of this universe; with its soaring dirigibles and high-tech gadgets. This London had been safe. This London had been free. This London had seen prosperity and growth, and so much wealth.

But not anymore.

This London was a wasteland.

It had started with the cybermen… all those many years ago. A madman, sick with death, hoping to rebuild the human race in his own image. He had turned hundreds upon thousands into heaps of lifeless metal; removing anything that might have made them seem even slightly human.

Immortality; that is what he had been striving for …how ironic it was that he would come to die within mere hours of claiming his empire.

"The age of steel", they had called it.

But even that was forgotten now. Because then it never stopped. Like a stack of dominoes, the monsters came one after another after another. The Axons with their false gifts, the Slitheen family with their sick emissaries, the Daemons, the Autons, the Carionites… and finally, the Daleks.

They lost, before they could even raise arms.

Torchwood.

UNIT.

All had failed.

Everyone they trusted, everyone they looked to for comfort, for safety…no one could have prepared them for the devastation that would come to rule their planet.

The human race were mere slaves, now; with no agriculture and no shelter, their planet cannibalized and stripped of its nutrients.

They died slowly, one by one, helping to expand the Dalek Empire. Some died of starvation; many of suicide. Some died from the labor, and some from disease. Either way, no one could do anything. The battle was lost.

Oh, there were those who tried. Those rare humans, starting up their little groups. The freedom fighters, hoping to stand up for their planet. But alas, it was useless. They all died in the end. Exterminate. Exterminate. Exterminate…

High upon the heaps of garbage, upon the masses of corpses, rotting in their own flesh; there sat the man responsible.

Because he had done nothing.

Rose was dead.

So he did nothing.

Upon his face slept the shadow of a once loved and well-respected man. His previously lush-brown hair was now thin and graying, messy around his head; not neatly styled as it had once been. His skin, once warm and tan, was now a milky pale, unshaven stubble working its way onto his cheekbones. His hands were frayed and worn, dirt nesting under his fingernails. His clothes looked quite similar; a simple black V-neck, with brown slacks that had become far too loose on him due to his lack of nourishment; both were torn, covered in filth.

Huddled atop the rubbish, he sat placid; his stone features blank and unfocused, staring into space. His knees were brought up to his chest, where his head lay; his arms wrapped around his knees. Even in this state he had never been one to stay completely still, though, and he fidgeted with his shoelaces; white string against blue converse.

He was dying.

Starvation. It was as simple as that. This human body could not last much longer, and he knew it. He expected it. He wanted it.

Because had he tried hard enough, he could have found food. He had always been resourceful, after all. He knew how to survive in such conditions.

But he simply did not care anymore.

He had nothing left to care for. What did this universe matter to him? Or it's inhabitants? They did not belong to him, just as he did not belong to them; much as he did not belong anywhere else, in any place, in any time. He was nothing. He was no one. He did not belong.

He rocked back and forth, bringing his face closer to his knees, and hummed to himself. "_Oh, unto Rassilon's Tower we go_. _We must choose above, between, below." _Several more quiet notes. _"Oh, above, between, below…"_

_Above, Between, Below._

Pain, Time, and Death.

He wondered which of the Menti Celesti were waiting for him, once he died. Was he still Time's Champion, even in this form? There was no matrix for him to be uploaded into, only the dark. Once he died, this was it; his soul surrendered to the will of the gods; not that he believed in any of that crap.

And yet still he hummed.

"_Oh, unto Rassilon's Tower we go_. _We must choose…"_

"EX-TER-MI-NATE!"

The metal voice rang loud through the air.

"…_Above, between, below. Unto Rassilon's tower, I go."_

The Dalek came into view, staring (if it had eyes to stare with) up at The Doctor.

"HALT!-CEASE-TALKING-OR-YOU-WILL-BE-EXTERMINATED!"

"_Unto Rassilon's tower I go, with neither friends nor my foes, nor my sorrows nor my woes, to Rassilon's tower, I go…"_

"EX-TER-MI-NAAAAAATE!!!"

"…_nor my sorrows, nor my woes…to Rassilon's tower… I go…"_

And the Dalek fired.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **The nursery rhyme the Doctor is singing is featured in the classic series episode, "The Five Doctors" with the first verse being canonical and the second verse being made up by me. The **Menti Celesti** were a group of deities that the Time Lords once worshipped during the rule of the Pythia, namely Death, Time, and Pain.


	2. Alone at the end of the rain

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Doctor Who

Modern Crusaders

Chapter 2

"_For millions of years, In millions of homes  
A man loved a woman, A child then was born  
It learned how to hurt and it learned how to cry  
Like Humans Do_

_I'm breathing in  
I'm breathing out_

_I work and I sleep and I dance and I'm dead  
The rain is pouring' in on a woman and a man_

_I'm aching  
I'm shaking  
I'm breaking  
Like Humans Do"_

David Byrne- Like Humans Do

* * *

_Tap tap tap tap_.

He drummed his fingers against the wall, holding his breath as he listened for a reply.

None came.

_Tap tap tap tap._ He tried again.

Nothing.

_Tap tap tap tap._

Silence.

In the dark of the London alleyways, a man was smiling to himself. So honest, so pure was the smile, so filled with delight, that no wandering eyes would have ever guessed who it was that owned it.

He sunk to his knees, cold rain lashing down upon his face. Slowly, almost as if in prayer, he extended his arms to the sky, poised and outstretched. A small laugh escaped his throat, soon turning into joyous, choked sobs; overwhelmed with joy.

They were gone.

The drums were gone.

He was _free._

_

* * *

_

"EX-TER-MI-NATE!!!"

The Dalek fired.

But the Doctor was too quick for it; he had spent far too many centuries dealing with these creatures not to know how to fight back. Grabbing hold of one of the corpses, he mustered up all his strength, and hauled it in the path of the oncoming laser.

The Dalek slid back a little, trying to work out what had just happened. "HOS-TILE-ACTION-DETECTED!!! YOU-WILL-BE-EXTERMINATED!!!"

The Doctor sighed to himself "Yeah, not today, mate." He mumbled in his best Donna Noble impression.

With the Dalek temporarily distracted, he took this opportunity to slide down the mountain of corpses, and bolt into a mad run. He wanted to die, oh yes, but he'd be damned if it was not by his own doing. There was still just enough fight in him yet, and he would not let them have the last laugh.

Panting, he made his way down the dark alleyways, sensing the Dalek close in pursuit. His single heart was pounding in his chest, and he could feel his legs growing weak. His whole _body_ was weak! But he kept on running.

Left, right, sideways, down the stairs; left again. Subconsciously, he had already calculated a total of 43 places he could hide, but found his feet carrying him onwards, further through the wet maze. A growing pile of corpses met him in an alley way, and he had to make an effort not to trip over them, nor his untied shoe laces.

Something was calling him, he could hear it.

_Thump._

Something so close, and yet so far away. Where was it?

_Thump._

_What_ was it?

_Thump._

He was sure it was close! If he just kept on searching…

He turned a corner, the Dalek hot on his trail, firing shots at him. "EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINAAAATE!" The war cry pounded in his ears, in perfect renaissance with the gunfire.

He dodged, frantic that any second now, he would get hit, and it would all be over.

_Thump._

And then he saw it, at the pinnacle of four beats. A ripple. Not a rift, not a vortex, not even a wormhole.

Just a ripple. A gap. A tiny, precious little gap, distorting this blasted reality just enough, that he....

He didn't know how, or why, or where it came from, or where it would lead to, but it was all he needed.

Knowing it would probably kill him, and not caring either way, he leapt through it.

"EXTERMINATE!!!"

But the Dalek was firing at thin air. It hovered there for a moment, then it's eye piece drooped, almost resembling something like shame.

"BUGGER. I'VE-LOST-HIM."

And with that, the Dalek initiated self destruct. A lone, metal creature; bathed in the bodies of those it had enslaved. With time the bodies would decompose, until nothing but their bones remained. In time, even those would whither away. But the Dalek would stay there, its armor rusting, day after day, but never decaying. It would be there centuries later, fossilized in its glory. Indomitable.

* * *

The Master marched down the streets of London, waving happily at the humans that passed him by. In his stride was a light-hearted skip, arms dangling comfortably at his sides. As he walked he whistled a fine tune; some old Gallifreyan lullaby, though the exact lyrics escaped his memory.

"Hello!" He said cheerfully to a passing woman, who was pushing an infant in some sort of primitive carriage; all the while trying to lug around three large grocery bags. "Need a hand, love?"

She chanced a quick glance at him, eyeing him up and down, and then turned her attention back to the road. "No thanks mate, got it covered."

He smiled after her as she walked away, then looked down at his clothes. A black hoodie with complimentary black pants, his red long johns protruding from all ends.

They were filthy.

He took a fistful of the fabric in his hand, and raised it to his nose.

And smelly...

…He smiled to himself.

It was time he found some new clothes.

The Doctor coughed, wet sunlight hitting his face. His eyes were sealed shut, his face scrunched up into an uncomfortable frown.

His head was pounding.

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

He opened his eyes, and the sound became quieter; retreating further and further away with each beat, until finally, it stopped.

With a grateful sigh, he took it upon himself to observe his new surroundings. He was in an alleyway. The same alleyway he had previously been in, but with one massive difference.

There were no bodies.

He sat up with a jolt. Had it really worked…?

He looked behind him, anxious that the Dalek may have followed him through the ripple, but alas, there was nothing. The opening had vanished from sight.

He smiled, and somehow he knew, he was home.

* * *

Human transport was so overrated.

The Master sat huddled, uncomfortably squeezed between an old man and a gangly young school girl, his face buried in a magazine. Upon the cover read some internet slang that he remembered, had taken him four weeks to properly understand. _"Kittens FTW!"_ in bold white letters. Licking his thumb, he turned the page, only to be greeted with more pictures of the feline frenzies.

It had not taken him long to steal some money (a hefty amount, at that) but as the double decker bus raddled on, he was beginning to wonder if he should not have simply walked the long distance that it would take to get to a proper fashion depot.

Across from him, a middle-aged woman eyed him suspiciously. Her hair was red and mousy, her skin rusted and wrinkly; adorned in far too much make up. Upon her lips, smothered in red, a large frown slept, wrapped in fine creases. Her eyes were an astonishing blue, and they glared at him with a fierceness that would make any human's skin crawl.

But he was not human.

"Got a problem, Love?" He lifted his eyes from the magazine, and flashed a pearly white grin at her.

In turn, she uttered a loud snort, and turned her attention to the world outside her window.

Well, obviously, he smelled.

He looked around, to find that she had only been one of many pairs of glaring eyes; though these ones quickly found other interests as soon as they met his own. Even the driver's nose had found its way into a disgusted wrinkle.

Humans had no manners.

Beside him, the school girl seemed to be the only one unaffected by his musty odor, as she scribbled furiously at what he presumed could only be her homework; highly doubting she worked out algebraic equations as a pastime hobby. Didn't look the type, even with her greasy hair and thick rimmed glasses.

He watched with mild interest as she scribbled out another equation, visibly frustrated as she uttered a low curse under her breath. The page was stained with black ink, each equation failing to produce the proper answer. She was dumb, this one.

"Twenty-three." He said simply.

She looked up at him, annoyance poorly hid on her emaciated features. "What?"

"Twenty-three." He repeated, and flashed her the same grin he had given to the old hag.

This received a furious blush on her end, and she muttered a quiet "oh…" rather than a "thank you" and copied in the correct answer.

With that he turned his attention back to his magazine, ignoring her as she wiped her nose on her sleeve. Perhaps she had a cold, though the Master speculated she had finally caught whiff of his stench.

* * *

He was cold.

The Doctor coughed; strings of yellow flem escaping from his mouth onto his sleeve.

He was sick.

With a pained sigh, he leaned against the moist-brick wall, sliding down it in defeat. His clothes were soaked with rain, with large gauds of mud to compliment. Closing his eyes, he drew his knees up to his chest, a pitiful whimper escaping his throat. He rocked back and forth, head buried in his knees.

It wasn't fair.

He thought it would be different, somehow. He thought that, by coming home, it would somehow make things right again; make them better.

But they weren't.

He was still cold, and still hungry. Still shaken, and broken, and sick with death. He had no shelter, no warmth and no comfort from the storm. But none of it mattered, because the worst thing…

Was that he was alone.

Truly alone, this time. In a world where he was surrounded by his former companions, he should have been able to go to any one of them.

But he couldn't.

Because he wasn't The Doctor. He didn't belong to them, just as he didn't belong to the false world. Just as he didn't belong to Rose, much as they had both tried to convince themselves otherwise. And they tried, they tried so hard, but he saw the way she looked at him, and it wasn't the same. The way she said his name, it wasn't the same. None of it was. He wasn't hers.

He let out a chocked sob, clutching his stringy hair in his fists. Rassilon, what could he do…? Who did he have, now that everyone he loved, was no longer his? Everything he had done over the centuries, every life he had saved, or taken, or broken or changed, was no longer his to bear. Who would help him now?

"_Help!"_

Yes, help. He needed help. He didn't want to die, he wanted help. Why would no one help him?

"_Somebody, help!"_

Somebody help him. Anyone.

"_Let go of me, no! Oh god, help me!"_

He looked up, startled. The voice wasn't his. Where was it coming from?

He looked around, eyes searching frantically for the source, until they landed on the dark alleyway to his right. There were no street lamps, not even any stars to guide his way, but he could vaguely make out, someone was in danger.

The figure of a woman, wrestling the foreboding shape of a man, who was threatening her in a hushed voice. The Doctor couldn't make out his words, and before he knew it, he was moving closer.

The woman spotted him.

"Help!" She repeated. "Help me!" She was hysterical, the man holding a pistol to her head with one hand, restraining her with the other. She struggled against him, a useless effort in her close fitting skirt and high boots.

He rushed towards her, but then saw the shape of the man advance on him. His face was masked, but The Doctor could see his eyes, and he felt fear work it's way into his bones. This was an honest man. This man would kill him, without a second thought.

Suddenly, The Doctor was frozen in his spot, nervous sweat trickling down his face.

The gun was now pointing at him.

"Now, just…" The Doctor stammered, holding up his index finger "Just listen…"

The man fired the gun, and the Doctor barely had enough time to turn tail and run. He ran as fast as his human legs would allow him, but in his head a little voice rang louder than any of the gun shots now following him.

_Coward._

He ran faster.

_She'll die because of you._

He shook his head in denial, screaming at the voice to shut up. She would have died anyway, it wasn't his fault. What could he do? He couldn't save her, he couldn't even save Rose! Why should he risk his life for some stranger that didn't even have the brains to stay away from some dark alley way at three in the morning? It wasn't his fault, it didn't concern him!

It is never a good idea to run with your eyes closed, and soon The Doctor found himself face to face with a clangy trash can, having tripped over a stray cat.

The cat hissed at him, slashing at his face until it felt sure that the strange man would not attack it, whereas it receded into the shadows of the four surrounding alleys.

Now sobbing in unconditional strides, The Doctor slammed his fists into the mud, the taste of it mixed with his own mucus. He cried, and heaved, and choked, and he couldn't take it. He hated being human. He was so _weak._

_Oi, Space-man!_

"SHUT _UP,_ DONNA!" He screamed at the stars. The cat hissed at him from its spot atop an old bed frame.

_Oi! I don't know what kind of control you have over mister dramatics over here, but you're not telling me to shut up! What the hell are you doing? Go BACK there and SAVE HER!_

"I can't…" He cried to himself. "Please, leave me be…"

_No!_

"GO AWAY!"

Blissful silence.

He ushered a final, raspy sob, and then, with all his strength, pulled himself to his feet. Oh, why him? Why was it that he, who had no one, should be savior to every bloody ape he came into contact with. It wasn't fair.

But she was right. He couldn't just leave her.

With great effort, he slowly turned in the direction he had come, and began to run. He did not know how far he had come, or how much time had passed, but he knew he was running out of it.

He could not remember what turns to make, and found himself guided only by the woman's increasing screams, which were mercifully growing closer.

Finally, he spotted them. And though he was weak, and felt as though he would collapse at any second, he charged at the man.

Down to the ground they wrestled, fighting for control over the gun. The Doctor kicked and pushed and pulled and yanked, all the while being fought off with much more strength from the apposing man, but he had the upper hand. Using what he could remember of Venusian Aikido, though not as well as his third incarnation might have done, he wrenched the gun from the culprit's hands, just as it was fired into the air.

He used the rear of it to knock him down, and then turned swiftly around to check on the woman.

But the sight that met him was one of horror, and the gun slipped through his fingers, hitting the grass with impossible noise. Time seemed to stop, something The Doctor had once been able to control, and he stared wide eyed, as blood poured from the woman's chest, onto the pavement. Her eyes were glued open, her face forever frozen in a terrified, silent scream.

She was dead.

He had killed her.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** 'Venusian Aikido" was a form of martial arts used by the third Doctor. Cats and Time Lords have a reoccurring history in Doctor Who (it has even been joked/mentioned that Time Lords evolved from cats rather than monkeys) so I figured I'd give them a little mention, both with the Doctor and the Master (who was turned part-cat himself in the classic who episode "Survival")

The Dalek saying "Bugger, I've lost him" was a reference to the classic who episode "The Five Doctors" Blooper, where a Dalek was chasing the First Doctor and his granddaughter (Susan) down a corridor and said "Bugger, I've lost 'em"


	3. You know you own the night

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Doctor Who

Modern Crusaders

Chapter 3

"_I see the blood all over your hands  
Does it make you feel more like a man?  
Was it all just a part of your plan?  
The pistol's shakin' in my hands  
And all I hear is the sound…"_

Always- Saliva

_Purr pussycat you have so many lives to live  
Claws out dig deep and scratch away the skin  
You know you own the night so go howl under the full moon  
These streets are filled with killers and comic book goons_

_This is your life, flashing before your eyes  
All the riddles and rhymes, echo in your mind  
It looks as though the joke is on you, as your blood runs cold and the plot Thickens, inside the mind of a killer, this could all be yours…_

Silent Film- Dog Fashion Disco

* * *

The Master hated humans.

He hated their cars, and their books, and their primitive architecture. He hated their economy, their money, and their politicians. He hated the way they slept so much. He hated the way they lived so little. He hated the way they were all hypocrites, and the way they looked down on anyone who did not fit their own image. He remembered that when he was a child, in those long days at the academy, he had had to learn all the names of all the known planets in the universe. With this all the planets were placed under many different categories, based on atmosphere and inhabitants and so many other things, but Earth's description had always been a contradictory one, and he found he would never forget it.

Planet: Earth.

Species: Human.

Inhabitants: Peaceful- marked with the note "proceed with caution."

He had never understood why anyone would have to be cautious around beings that were marked as 'peaceful.'

Well, now he knew.

The day before, he had found himself thrown off the bus rather than allowed to pay the full fair for his trip. Upon entering a shop where he could buy some clothes, he was also thrown out. He was then beaten bloody by police men after threatening to blow up the shop (which he still had half the intention of doing, if only to prove a point) and only just managed to escape them, his Time Lord legs carrying him faster than they could follow.

All because he smelled.

Rassilon help the poor humans who ever landed on the planet Terserus. They'd die of culture shock!

After much cursing and thievery, he had finally managed to put himself up at a cheap hotel, where he found he could at least take a bath. The prospect of clean clothes was still out of reach, though, and he yearned for the good old days when it would have taken him mere minutes to fashion himself a donation of disguise. These days, though, he had to work hard at things.

Of course he was always one to learn the hard way, and it had quite shocked him to discover that his nearly fool-proof "I am the Master, and you will obey me." Phrase had lost its touch, as he had not managed to hypnotize a single person into giving him their clothes; instead receiving a few good slaps from several women (and one man) with more than one person calling him a 'bloody wanker.'

This revelation had only resulted in more encounters with the police, and after finally loosing his new-found composure; he had attempted to strangle half of them to death.

Nevertheless, he had managed to out-run them, but not without receiving several bruises first.

And so it was for this reason that he lay wrapped up in musty hotel sheets, staring out at the rain, cursing the humans. The lamp beside him flickered, and he could hear spiders scuttling across the ceiling. From the bathroom he could smell the stench of his clothes, which were now soaking in their own grime. Any attempts to scrub them clean had failed, resulting in nothing more than a wasted bar of soap and a murky tub.

At least he himself had managed to freshen up, but it left him naked in his white sheets. He couldn't go wandering around London in nothing but his skin.

Sighing, he slid off of the bed, quite vacant of any dignity (but who was watching?) and crawled to the door.

Unlocking it with some effort on account of the rust, he stepped out into the cold night, and wrapped his sheet around him tightly. Exhaling to test whether he could see his breath, which he could, he looked around, as if hoping to see some solution to his rather pathetic predicament.

But the lot was empty, save for the pattering of the now receding rain, and the sounds of a stray cat foraging through the large dumpster at the side of the building. Eyeing it for a while, he slipped back into his room, and emerged a few seconds later with what was left of his dinner; the standard fish and chips.

The pavement was cold and wet against his bare feet as he made his way over to the creature, and he knelt down with some caution, fearful of scaring it away.

"Here, puss puss puss puss…" he muttered quietly to the cat.

It ignored him.

He grinned at it, teeth shining in the dim light. "C'mon, look what I have, eh?" He held up a piece of the fish, and pressed it to his nose. "Good, yes?"

The cat eyed him for a minute, but then went back to its rummaging.

The Master let out a low growl. "C'mon, you great, mangy, _stupid _little piece of-"

She hissed at him.

The Master smiled. "Oh, you wanna fight, do ya?" He chuckled, throwing the fish back into the basket. "Okay then, come here! Let me change that fur of yours into a nice new hat."

Clearly slightly telepathic, it growled at him, swatting at the air despite being a good three feet away from him. Arching it's back, it let out another, this time louder, hiss; walking sideways as to avoid loosing sight of him. The Master hissed back, displaying teeth just a bit too sharp to pass a human dental check-up… But then, did Time Lords not share ninety-eight percent of their DNA with vampires? Had he not spent _days_ on a planet where he himself slowly turned savage, and yet was still able to crawl back to his sanity? Of course he could be granted some long lasting side effects.

The Cat finally turned tail and ran, still letting out a terrified growl as its paws hit the pavement. Cursing, The Master threw the basket of food into the dumpster. Let it dig it out of the trash, then!

After a minute he calmed down, and wrapped his sheet around him again, staring up at the sky. Gallifrey's star was no where to be seen.

Good.

He could still see the flames; still hear the screams of the Time Lords as they died slowly, one by one, his own death quickly approaching. Rassilon, _curse him_, had personally dragged The Master to the great hall, where he was displayed to the Time Lords weak and dying, like a rat in a cage.

"_This_ is your destroyer!" Rassilon had cried out. "With what anger you may harbor, in these final hours, my brothers and sisters! My sons, and my daughters, May it be directed at _him_, not I!"

The Time Lords all shouted, their fists punching the air, their words muffled and meaningless against one another. He had laid there, fading and broken, but with a smile on his face. It wasn't his fault the Time Lords were dying, oh no. Even Rassilon knew, it was The Doctor's. And he was so proud of him for it.

"You all righ' there, mate?"

Slightly startled, he turned. There stood a small, pale woman, her crimson hair falling around her face in dark curls. Leaning against one of the railing posts to light up a cigarette, she smiled at him. A large puff of smoke escaped her lips, followed by a raspy cough.

The Master eyed her up and down, taking it all in. She was dressed in a whore's finest, with a skirt much too short for her scarred legs. Glitter clung to her pink blouse, lined with a tight fitted jean jacket. Her emerald eyes were laced with drugs, her voice even more so, as she continued to speak to him.

"Heard a commotion over 'ere, so I figured I'd see what all the fuss was about." She sniffed. "Bloody cats..."

A pause.

"You like cats…?" Her voice rang loud with mock interest.

The Master considered, staring at her with equal boredom. "It's not really _liking_ them, so much as it is a… duty, I guess."

"Duty?" She laughed at him, to receive a small glare in return. "What are you, Cat-man?" Her giggle continued to pierce his ears, until finally she broke into a coughing fit.

He looked back at the sky. "Someone like you wouldn't understand."

"Try me." She grinned.

He looked at her, and for the first time noticed that her eye was bruised black. She must have noticed his gaze, because her smile soon fell.

"Who did that to you?" There was no concern in his voice, merely bored conversation, if anything.

"My boyfriend, didn't he?" The smile returned to her face, full of dishonest amusement. She rocked back and forth on her heels, curious as to what he would make of her tantalizingly blunt answer.

"You mean your customer?" He smirked at her, and her face rolled back with laughter.

"Well, aren't _you_ one to make assumptions. I'm only out here because' I want to be." She took another drag of her cigarette.

"Need the money?"

Her expression finally turned serious, and she eyed him quite viciously. "Now don't you' go judging' me, all righ'? I've got a wee baby. Got to put food in his mouth somehow, don't I?"

"There's a word for that." He smiled. "It's called a job." He said his words slowly, as if it would be hard for her to understand them.

She threw her cigarette to the ground and stomped on it. "As if I haven't tried that. You have no pity, do ya?"

He snorted. "No, love. None at all. Where I come from, our women wouldn't be caught dead in the filth you're wearing… nor the circumstances, for that matter." He looked her over again. "Where I come from we treat our women with respect, because they've earned it. Unlike you lot, you who prance around, whoring yourself out to the highest bidder, because you've somehow convinced yourself that you must. I'd sooner abandon that trash you call your child. Where I come from-"

"And where's that, _Kensington_?" She interrupted.

He let out a small laugh. "Yeah, something like that…"

She sighed. "You're not right to judge me, mate. I do what I have to for the people I love. Even you should be able to understand that."

He shook his head. "Don't have anyone like that."

She smirked. "Aw, come now, don't be a hard ass. There must be _someone_."

"Nope." He looked at her with honest eyes. "Not a soul."

She stared at him, then folded her arms across her chest, expression devious with interest. "You must be lonely."

He shook his head. "Not at all."

There was a long silence, and finally she spoke up, as if noticing for the first time. "Why you' dressed like that…?"

He laughed, and then beamed at her, a cunning plan evident in his eyes. Smile widening, he pointed to the bruise on her face. "I don't suppose you'd like to get back at the bloke who did that to you…?"

* * *

The Doctor ran.

The Pistol was still in his hands, bathed in the woman's blood. Furiously, he had tried to save her; from performing CPR to screaming at her to wake up, none of it had worked.

And so instead he ran, chasing the man responsible for her death. Because it wasn't his fault, oh no, it was the thief's. He was the one at fault. _He _was the culprit, not The Doctor. And he would pay for it.

Not just minutes ago he had felt weak, unable to carry on, but now his blood was boiling with revenge, and he soon caught up with the man, his hands seizing the back of his clothes. With an infuriated growl he swung the man into the nearest wall, and though he fought back, The Doctor could not have been any stronger in his ambition to make him suffer.

He screamed at the man, forcing him to look him in the eye, whose own were filled with tear-stained terror. He begged, he pleaded, he squirmed and kicked and tried to wriggle his way out of The Doctor's grasp, but to no avail.

"Do you know what you've done?" The Doctor bellowed. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'VE DONE?!"

Seething, he pulled off the Man's mask, to reveal the face of a mere teenager, blonde locks falling greasily over his face. He cried out to The Doctor, tears streaming down his cheeks, his whole body shaking; but was cut short when The Doctor grabbed a fistful of his hair, and began slamming his face into the wall. Over, and over, and over; crimson globules stained the concrete.

It was not long before his anguished cries died down, and before the Doctor knew it, he was facing a blood-spattered corpse.

His initial thoughts were ones of triumph; for he had avenged the dead woman! But as he panted, his knees wobbling and teeth clenched; he slowly felt the regret sinking in. With it came the realization that he had truly, honestly, murdered a human. The blood was still warm on his hands, mixing with the blood of its predecessor. It stained the gun, which was cold against his skin, and he felt his whole body shaking in protest at what he had done.

He clenched his teeth.

No. He was not at fault. This one had it coming. He deserved it.

Right…?

He looked around, fearful of watchful eyes, but none greeted him. Somewhere, a rooster called, and he could almost see the first rays of daylight breaking through the rainclouds. Glancing up at the sky, he searched for any remaining stars, but was only met with a dark canvas of gray.

The blood had soaked the ground now, working its way onto his shoes, which he took off in a frenzy, carrying them with him as he fled the scene. This way he would not leave prints, but neither would they find evidence of who had been there.

He ran for miles, exhausted both mentally and physically, but he had to get away. He had to run and run and run, because he was a criminal, now, and they would find him. Wet tears streamed down his face, and he could feel the shame and fear quivering up his spine, as he fled past the early risers. They would find the bodies, soon, he knew, and he had to get away.

_Doctor._

Donna's voice rang excruciatingly painful in his mind, quiet and unbelieving.

_What have you done…?_

"I didn't _mean_ to!" He shouted, knocking over an old lady as he ran. His bare feet had become victim to several pieces of broken glass, and he could feel the blood leaving footprints behind in his wake. Damn it all.

_Oh but you did._ Echoed the other voice. _You_ _had it all planned, didn't you? You wanted it._

He shook his head furiously, screaming back at the voice in his head. "No. No. No. No. No no no no no no no _NO!._"

* * *

"NO!" The Master bolted upright, staring around frantically for whatever it was that had scared him. But there was nothing, and he soon came to his senses, unsurprised at the still snoring figure laying next to him. To any wandering eyes, this scene would entail an all too common scenario, but alas it was not the case. It had taken two bottles of cheap brandy, and a willing ear to listen to all her problems, but The Master had eventually convinced her that it was indeed in her best interests to steal all the possessions (including the clothes) of the man who had roughed her up the night before.

In all honesty the easiest thing to do would have been to bribe her to go buy him some new clothes; but then there was no guarantee that she would not simply run off with the money given, and on top of that he already knew that she had no fashion sense.

Slipping on his new boots, (which were two-sizes-too-big for him) he snatched up the man's wallet, in turn emptying the contents of his accomplices' purse, before slipping quietly out the door.

The air was still wet with rain, but at least the sun was shining, and he skipped (quite literally) on his way to the nearest bus stop.

After a while he finally found his destination, and took rest upon an old wooden bench. The air was still nauseatingly wet, and a large fog seemed to encircle the whole bus stop.

Time passed.

Now, the Master had always been a patient person, but even he had to admit that waiting for more than an hour was downright ridiculous. Just as he was about to kick something, he heard a distinct mewing from behind.

Spinning around, he came face to face with the cat from the night before. It was pitch-black; it's hair long and gleaming in the damp miasma. Though obviously feral, it sat with a dignity that only cats and Time Lords seemed to achieve in their posture, and in its eyes shown with a brilliant green intelligence.

He eyed it curiously. "Come back for another round?"

The cat licked its chops.

He smirked. "Well, I don't have any food for ya."

It stared at him.

"And you're not comin' with me!" He put his hands in his pockets and kicked a stone, turning away from the cat.

Suddenly he felt an object rubbing up against his legs, and looked down to see the cat smiling (could cats smile?) up at him.

"Don't you even try it." He warned.

It purred.

"I'm warning you. I know I smell like a cat lover but I assure you I could not be farther from my brethren pacifists."

It mewed.

"No." He held up his index fingers. "No. Don't even think about it, don't you dar-"

The cat jumped into his arms.

"Bollocks!" The Master cursed.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **More cats lol, please don't hate me. This chapter was a bit hard to write because I really wasn't sure whether to keep the Master's encounter with the girl, but in the end it had to stay as I felt things would just not be as easy for him to accomplish as they had been in his youth. I try to avoid bringing original characters into things but I don't think she'll be popping up again, so…

The planet "Terserus" was featured in the Doctor Who comic relief sketch "The Curse of the Fatal Death" Where the Doctor and the Master kept bribing an architect to set trap doors for both Time Lords and the people of that planet communicated by farting. Yes. I know. The Master got stuck in the sewers for like nine hundred years before finally going off to have some fun with the newly-regenerated-into-a-woman thirteenth Doctor.

I don't live in the UK so I had to look up posh areas around the greater London area, and according to Google, Kensington is one of them. Correct me if I'm wrong, please.


	4. How are we doing today?

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Doctor Who

Modern Crusaders

Chapter 4

"_I don't know your face no more  
Or feel your touch that I adore  
I don't know your face no more  
It's just a place I'm looking for  
We might as well be strangers in another town  
We might as well be living in a different world  
We might as well  
We might as well  
We might as well_

_I don't know your thoughts these days  
We're strangers in an empty space  
I don't understand your heart  
It's easier to be apart_

_We might as well be strangers in another town  
We might as well be living in a another time  
We might as well  
We might as well  
We might as well be strangers…"_

We Might As Well be Strangers- Keane

* * *

The one good thing about London, The Doctor observed, was that it was easy to get lost in.

He had lived a good portion of ten lives roaming these streets, but found that he never could seem to find his way around. Or maybe he had been able to at one point, and had simply lost that gift, along with all of his other Time Lord capabilities.

Either way, he was, once again, lost.

And that was good.

How would they find him, if he himself did not know where he was? Twas a fool-proof defense! He was safe!

He was barefoot now, his shoes thrown into a burning bin, compliments of his homeless brethren. Here he sat, huddled in an abandoned cargo shaft. He was dirty from head to foot, every inch of skin covered in grime and soot. Upon his flesh lay numerous cuts and bruises; some of them caused from the dangers of the city, others caused by his own nails digging agitatedly at his face.

His hair was more of a mess than it ever had been, falling down to his neck in long brown tresses. He cursed as he ran his fingers through it, practically feeling every lost gray hair laughing down at him. He didn't look like The Doctor anymore. He looked like…well, he didn't know anymore. A stranger.

His fingers were long and bony as they worked his way down to caress his chin, which was in dire need of a shave. It was only a little stubble by human standards, but for him, had he cared, it would have been too much. He wasn't Rassilon, and he wasn't The Master. Beards did not become him, no matter what Rose said.

He felt his stomach plummet at the thought of her name. Ugh, why her? Why did every little thing have to remind him of her?

He rocked back and forth in his familiar lullaby, lips red with blood from where he had bitten down. He was so hungry, and the blood tasted good. For a minute his thoughts wandered back to his days with Romana, and he thought for a flash that vampires were indeed sensible in enjoying its flavor. How many days had it been, he wondered, since he had last eaten? How many weeks? Shouldn't he be dead by now?

It was never that easy.

He couldn't make sense of his thoughts anymore. Did he want to live, or did he want to die? Why was he running, if he did not care about his own life? Maybe it was because he knew they would keep him alive. Those human detectives; they would stuff his face with food and medicine and tear at his mind for as long as they needed, before finally getting a confession out of him. Or maybe they wouldn't have to wait; maybe he'd crack under the pressure instantaneously, spilling his guts in a hyper waltz.

It didn't matter, though. He wasn't going to wait around to find out. He would continue running, continue hiding, until no human dare take notice of his skeleton cadaver.

Because they thought he was a murderer.

Well, they were wrong.

He'd make sure they knew how wrong they were.

He'd show them…

* * *

The Master cursed, stomping down the streets in search of a shop. As he walked, many people turned and stared, but he knew that this time, it was not because of his clothes, nor was it because he smelled.

They said that dogs were a man's best friend.

He wondered if they could guess what a Time Lord's best friend was.

The cat had followed him everywhere, in turn making it impossible for him to board a bus. Five miles he had walked; five agonizingly _long_ miles down these winding roads. It wasn't as though he was getting tired, as _if_… but damn it, he was growing impatient! In no form of logical reasoning should it have been _this _difficult to acquire something as simple as a change of clothes.

Lucy meowed happily as her paws pattered against the asphalt; several young girls cooing over the way she followed her Master.

Lucy. That was her name. Because he said so, and because she was just as annoying as his dead human wife, if not more. At least _she_ listened to him!

Well, besides the whole killing him twice thing.

"Curse you!" He swore under his breath, though whether he was cursing Lucy the cat or Lucy the human was unclear. Either way he was not happy, and was going to be even less so if he did not find a department store _now._

As if by magic, one appeared, and he practically skipped into it, but not before slamming the door in Lucy's face.

The feline glared at him, green eyes piercing into his back as it faded from view. After several minutes of waiting, she jumped up onto a nearby bin, soaking up the humid sun as she awaited his return.

The Master breathed deeply, inhaling the fine scents of cotton and polyester. "Oh, I love _shopping_…" He exhaled.

"Me too, love. How can I help ya?"

He turned around, startled. Had he said that out loud?

"Ah, no help needed." He stuttered at the middle-aged employee. "I think I've got it covered." He grinned in an almost amused way, receiving a complimentary smile paired with dark brown hair and blue eyes. He might not be able to hypnotize humans anymore, but natural charm had to count for something.

"Well, I'll be just over there, if you need me." She pointed to the cash register, and he nodded in understanding, rocking on his toes as she took her leave.

Looking around, he was surprised to find that the vicinity was much fancier than he had expected. It also seemed to have a wider interior; in that respect it reminded him of a TARDIS, and he made a mental note of where his next journey would be.

Strolling down the aisles of clothes, he had a basic idea of what he was looking for. All he needed was a nice black ensemble. Because he had always looked good in black, no matter what his regeneration, be it skeleton or Lord of all camp.

He browsed through the rows of hangers, looking for the correct sizes. For some reason, he felt slightly shorter than he did when he had been Harold Saxon. Perhaps it was another side effect of Lucy's resurrection-meddling; damn the woman.

Finally, he found what he was looking for. A black suit, very much resembling that of a catholic priest. Come to think of it, it looked _exactly_ like what a priest might wear, neck tie and all.

He blinked, turning it over in his hands. Did humans normally mix formal wear with daily attire?

Oh well, who was he to complain?

Slipping it off the hanger, he made his way into a dressing room.

It was perfect.

He examined himself in the mirror, tying around the collar as he did so. Why not wear the whole thing? It looked good on him!

He grinned, satisfied as he ran his fingers through his blonde hair. Oh yes, this suited him nicely, somehow.

Knowing he was happy with his decision, he made his way out, not bothering to change back into his prior rags.

It still felt like something was missing, though.

He pondered, looking around for some kind of hint as to what was off, and then spotted something blue in the corner of his eye.

Prancing his way over to it, he saw that it was a long, flowing tailcoat. He took it off the hanger, holding it up to his torso, before trying it on. It was indeed very long, barely an inch off of the ground, much reminding him of the Doctor's own puddle of brown; except this coat seemed to fit much closer to the skin.

He stared at himself in the mirror, considering. He had never worn much color before, especially such a light shade of blue, but he had to admit it looked good with his hair.

Yes. This would do splendidly.

Gathering up his old clothes, he strode up to the cashier from before, whose smile quickly faded.

"All right, love." He beamed. "Ring me up!" He spread his arms eagle-style, grinning from ear to ear as the tags dangled loosely from their appendages.

The woman placed her hands on her hips, glaring at him through her amused smile. "Now how do I know you haven't got more clothes under there?"

He let his arms flop to his sides, a dejected mope plastered on his face. "Oh, well by all means, if you want me to take them off-" He started undoing his collar.

She held up her hands, scanner pointing at him like a gun. "No, no, it's fine, come here."

He advanced towards her, watching with interest as she moved around to scan the items one by one. "Goin' to a party?" she asked casually.

"No." He furrowed his brow in confusion, then looked down at her as she scanned the tag on his trousers. "Why?"

She stared up at him, eyebrows raised. "Well you got this in fancy dress, didn't you?"

He looked back at the section where he had found the suit, brow furrowed in contemplation. "Is that what it was…?"

"All right, finished." She stood up, handing him a receipt, which he eyed carefully. "Isn't this a bit expensive…?" He glared at her.

"Not in this shop, it aint." The woman grinned.

He sniffed. "Fine, whatever you want." And slammed the money down on the counter. "See if I come here again! I've got the whole universe to choose from! Or I will, in a few hours…" And with that he exited the shop, the door bell clanging behind him.

The woman smiled as his form disappeared into the crowd, a black cat following in his wake.

What a strange man.

Counting the money before placing it in the cash register, she discovered that the lump sum was ten pounds short of what he owed her.

Sighing, she opened up her own purse, adding the lost amount. Oh well, this was her good deed for the day…

And besides, he _did_ look good in that coat.

* * *

"C'mon, Lucy!"

The Master really didn't need to keep encouraging her to follow him, but what kind of a Master would he be if he did not order his minions around?

Yes, she was a minion. He did not keep pets. He tried to keep a dog once; gave him his own bowl and tent and everything. But the dog behaved badly, so he then turned him into a canary, having to keep him locked up in a bird cage. Just look how _that _turned out.

Lucy purred, staring up at him with pompous affection. It almost looked as if she was asking him, "Where are we going, Master?"

He smirked down at her. "Where all Time Lords go when they need to hide something on earth." He answered matter-of-faculty "76 Totter's Lane."

"What are you hiding?" Her nonexistent prying continued.

"I'm not hiding something, I'm picking something up." He grinned, fiddling with the buttons on his new coat.

"What is it? Is it tasty?"

_Now_ he was _sure_ he was not just imagining things. Though, considering his behavior on Christmas…

He shook his head, ignoring his better judgment. "Not remotely."

Lucy quickened her pace, scampering ahead as they neared their destination.

"Oi!" The Master growled, having to jog in order to keep up with her. "Don't you walk away from me! Who do you think is in charge, here?!"

She meowed.

"Oh, is that so?" He caught up with her, slamming open a pair of blue double-gate doors. Upon them was the inscription "Forman's Junkyard," barely visible in its now faded white paint.

"Hasn't changed much." He looked around, stepping on a piece of glass in the process. Looking down, he realized he had forgotten to buy new shoes.

Damn.

Well, these ones weren't too bad. He rocked up and down, testing them on his feet as if putting them on for the first time. They were stark and firm-fitting black boots, with a vague hint of a heel to them. Yeah, he could work with these. They fit, didn't they? Could use a good wash, though…

Peering around the cluttered enclosure, he got that all-too familiar feeling of it being too quiet, mixed with the feeling of being watched. But then, this junkyard was full of many things, both human and alien, and being a Time Lord he was sensitive to those energies.

Still, best to proceed with caution.

He made his way over to one of the various piles, and began rummaging for his prize. He doubted any human would find it, but had still taken precautions as to put a perception filter on it. It was his last resort, after all.

Now in his many years of regenerations, and the mistakes made in them, he had learned long ago that he could never be too careful, especially in matters concerning The Doctor. He always had to think three steps ahead, because, as much as he hated to admit it, The Doctor would always be five steps ahead of his three steps.

So considering the ridiculous prospect that his plan to overthrow the earth would fail, there had been some things to take into consideration. Should he fail, what would his next move be? Should he die, what would he do after regeneration? Should regeneration not be an option (because it had happened before) how could he then manage to survive, regenerations still in tact? Should he be alone, stranded, and powerless, as he was now, how was he going to get out of it? If, by the small chance, any of this happened?

Coming back to life? Well, he had achieved it, although he had hit several detours along the way. Still, he managed. Means of getting off this planet should The Doctor re-claim his TARDIS? Well, that had been planned from the very beginning. Even before his creation of the paradox machine. Even before seducing Lucy into her doomed marriage, he had planned for this.

"Aha!" His smile seemed to stretch from ear to ear, as he pulled a small, old fashioned safe from a rubbish bin. "Found it! Now, let's see, the code, the code…" He sat down on the dirt, filling in a long combination as he muttered a wide string of numbers to himself. Finally, the metal lock gave way, and he opened the lid with much enthusiasm. Noticing the change of events, Lucy frolicked over to him, curious of any treasures that may yet be unveiled.

Inside the box were no more than two things; the first being a replacement laser screwdriver, the second being what appeared to be an aging piece of coral.

The Master grinned, picking up the screwdriver and twisting it over in his hands. Peering at it with some nostalgia, a rather odd thought entered his mind.

"This could be a little more sonic…" He blinked at it, then stuck it in his coat pocket. As he reached for the coral, he felt the terrible urge to go through the entire junkyard, excited as to what other artifacts he might find. But first things first, he had to get down to business.

Producing his laser screwdriver from his pocket, he set the coral down on the ground, aiming it at the small child. Normally it would take thousands of years for a TARDIS to grow, but what did he care about rules? He had Lazarus technology!

He laughed to himself as the fetus trembled on the ground, a small noise emitting from it like wind through air pipes.

Lucy hissed and hid behind The Master, hair standing on end as the piece of coral shifted, soon glowing with a vibrant yellow light. In a matter of seconds the color had changed from a rusty brown, to a strident shade of blue, and the coral grew and grew, larger and larger as both the light and the noise grew stronger. But The Master's smile began to fade, and as he neared the end of the labor, standing before him was _anything_ but what a young TARDIS should look like.

Instead it was a police box.

"…_Shit._" He a low growl escaped his throat, and he swung the doors open. Of course! How could he be so _stupid!_

The Doctor's TARDIS was a damaged and spoiled one; how could her offspring, bred from a single parent, be born into anything than what it knew of its mother. The walls were the same, the floors were the same. The pillars, the console, everything was an exact replica of The Doctor's TARDIS, save for the lack of any furniture or otherwise inanimate objects.

He continued to growl, Lucy stepping in to examine the new surroundings. As he flicked several switches on the console, turning a few knobs and pressing a few buttons, his worst fears were confirmed. Not only was the interior the same, but so were the very dynamics of the machinery. Anything that had been broken in her mother was also broken in her. This also meant that the time controls were locked, just as they had been when he had escaped from the end of the universe.

He was stuck.

_Damn_ that Doctor.

Very much shaking with rage, he kicked a piece of the console. This resulted in a small shake of the room, much like the equivalent of a child's whimper. _What did I do wrong? _Her language was of the highest Gallifreyan, reserved only for loved ones and family members. The Master was surprised to find something tearing at his hearts like knives, deep within his subconscious.

"Er, sorry…" he muttered, stroking the console as he rose to his feet. "It's not your fault, it's your mum's, really. Well not your mum, more so her master…"

_Are you my master?_

He grinned, feeling rather pathetic in his foolhardiness, but answered. "Yes. And you will obey me."

With that he exited The TARDIS, taking a good hard look at its exterior. It was young, yes, but seemed to be whole enough. He sighed, staring up at it with his arms folded securely across his chest. Now the question was, how was he going to fix it?

"Get out of the way."

The Master froze. He'd know that voice anywhere.

Why hadn't he sensed him…?

Turning around slowly, sweat forming on his brow, he felt no warmth in those words this time. Left was only a malice, a ferocity that did not belong on that tongue, not in any circumstances. The sight that met him was only more horrifying.

It was The Doctor; gun in hand.

And it was pointed at _him._

_

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **What a hard chapter to write! I tried to keep it as canonical as I possibly could, forgive me if I messed up somewhere in the technology-babble, I'm not smart like The Doctor/Master.

I.M Foreman's Junkyard was a key plot point to several episodes in the classic series, where The First Doctor hid his TARDIS and where the hand of Omega was hidden. According to Wikipedia, so I don't know how true this is, bear with me, **I.M. Foreman** was a Gallifreyan monk who lived on Gallifrey but was driven from the monasteries following Rassilon's Intuitive Revolution. It's not clear whether there is a connection between the two, but I choose to use my imagination, as you may also do. I think there were more things I was supposed to mention but I forgot them. If you have any questions feel free to ask in a review.


	5. Hello My Friend, We Meet Again

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Doctor Who

Modern Crusaders

Chapter 5

"_We're talking away  
I don't know what  
I'm to say  
I'll say it anyway  
Today's another day to find you  
Shying away  
I'll be coming for your love, okay?_

_Take on me, take me on  
I'll be gone  
In a day or two_

_So needless to say  
I'm odds and ends  
But that's me stumbling away  
Slowly learning that life is OK.  
Say after me  
It's no better to be safe than sorry"_

Take on me- Aha

* * *

"Get out of the way."

But The Master did not move, frozen in his place in front of the TARDIS.

What was going on?

It was definitely The Doctor; that much was certain. But there were so many things off beam about him, he had to look quite hard to see the resemblance. From his head to his naked toes, the whole thing was just…_wrong_.

His hair was a lion's mess of a mane, unshaven stubble extending from ear to ear, hidden behind long tresses. His clothes were nothing like what The Doctor, _his_ Doctor, would wear. A black v-neck, tight-fitted against his skin so that his ribs were visible. His brown slacks were terribly loose on him, seemingly in danger of falling down, and had this been any other occasion, and not one involving a gun pointed at his head, The Master would have been tempted to laugh.

He swallowed, a nervous smile shaking on his lips. "Hey there, Doctor. Long time no see, eh?"

The Doctor said nothing.

This only made The Master more nervous. He kept still, but his eyes wavered to anything that he might use to his advantage. There was nothing that could help him that would not require moving. Looking back at The Doctor, he decided his best option was to try and talk his way out of this. "Okay, so it hasn't been that long…for me, anyway. What about you?" He looked him up and down, trying to sound amused. "How long did it take for you to grow your hair out like that? Oh, I must say, Doctor, it doesn't really suit you. Best find a barber, I think." He beamed at him, but his attempt at small talk seemed to fall on deaf ears.

"I said move."

The Master shook his head; a small motion, barely visible to The Doctor's human eyes. "I don't think so." He scoffed, then seemed to loose any sense of pretension. "What's with the gun?"

"To shoot you with." The Doctor said simply. "If you don't move."

The Master's head rolled back, a loud laugh echoing through the junkyard. But even as he chuckled, he could feel an unsettling chill move up his spine. Something was very wrong. The Doctor's face said he was serious, and the fact that he held the pistol firmly in his hand, told him he had done this before. How many times, he wondered? And in spite of all this, there was still the tantalizing question; why had he not sensed him?

Despite all these warnings, both verbal and otherwise, he continued to laugh.

"Shoot me, Doctor? You couldn't shoot me when the whole _universe_ was at stake; you're not going to do it _now_!"

Bang.

Howling, The Master fell to the ground. He had been shot in the foot.

Growling up at The Doctor, he yanked his laser screwdriver out of his pocket, not bothering to fiddle with the settings, and fired it at The Doctor.

A red beam slammed him in the chest, and he sunk to his knees. Gasping with pain, he cried up at the sky, clutching his ribs as he curled into a ball against the dirt.

Night was falling.

Glaring at his wounded adversary, The Master seethed with rage. He could feel the blood soaking into his shoe, his wound pulsating with a sharp throb. Heaving himself into a sitting position, using his TARDIS for support, he stared at his screwdriver.

It had been set to default.

Panting, he began to crawl over to The Doctor. Whether this was from curiosity or the laughable prospect of concern, one could not say. Either way it was hard to miss that he seemed to be in much more pain than he should be for such a low setting, and much more pain than even The Master himself was in. Even that bloody Martha Jones's mother had taken this method of affliction with more valor.

"Doctor?" He hissed the name.

No answer.

The Doctor was wrapped into himself, arms covering his face and his knees simultaneously, as he lay shaking on his side. The gun was still in his hands.

Growling, The Master yanked it from his clutches, putting it into his own pocket for safe keeping. At this, The Doctor let out a quiet, choked sob, and The Master once again felt that something was definitely very,_ very_ wrong.

But what was he going to do about it…?

Dozens of voices whispered into his ears. Voices from the past, his own past selves, cheering him on.

_Kill him. Leave him. Destroy him. Abandon him. Torture him. Make him hurt, make him suffer._

_Help him…_

Snarling, he shooed Koschei's voice away from his ear, as if it were an insect buzzing around his head. His voice was always the quietest, no doubt, but still the most annoying.

It had always been his voice that had stopped him from killing The Doctor. Always Koschei, scratching at the back of his mind, trying to claw his way to the surface. _Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it._

Well not anymore.

The Doctor was weak. He had him in his grasp. This time, he'd take the advantage. He'd kill him, once and for all. He'd do it. He'd do it now. He would.

But instead his fists were casing themselves around The Doctor's shoulders, nails digging deep into his flesh, pulling him into a sitting position. His face was still buried in his hands, and had to be forcefully pried from his skin.

"Look at me." The Master demanded.

His eyes were sealed shut, his mouth turned into a twisted smile; a soft giggle echoed in the night.

The Master eyed him carefully, trying to work things out in his head. But nothing seemed to make sense to him anymore, and he could only come to the conclusion that his old friend had finally, inevitably, lost his mind.

Welcome to hell.

"Why are you laughing…?" He tried to make his voice sound authoritative, but instead it was painted grey with confusion.

"Because it's funny!" The Doctor explained. "It's funny, isn't it? Isn't it funny?"

The Master shook his head a little, uncomfortable in the position he had been placed. "I don't understand."

"Because I tried to SAVE THEM!" His voice was weak and cracked against his decibels, sallow tears escaping his eyes and dripping down his skin. "And instead I KILLED THEM! That's funny, right?"

He gazed intently at The Master for a reply, like a child awaiting praise, but only received more confused turnings of the head and twitching of the eyes. "Who did you kill?"

"_EVERYONE_!" He screamed in The Master's face, glaring at him with all his might, as if doing so could drown out his guilt.

"And…by everyone, you mean Gallifrey? I thought we were passed that-"

"I mean EVERYONE!" He cried. "Everyone I've ever known! They're all _gone!_"

The Master finally laughed, rolling his head back in forth in an amused fashion. "Now that's just…Ridiculous, Doctor. You said it yourself, you know me; and I'm still here, aren't I?"

The Doctor choked, his head falling limp at The Master's words. "I thought you were dead…"

This earned him a smile. "No, I lived! See? I escaped!"

Hands clenching into fists, the other man shook his head in protest. "How could you escape? I saw you. I held you in my arms and watched you die. I burnt your body-"

"You _actually_ gave me a funeral?" His jeering continued, until suddenly he stopped. "Wait, what?"

"What…?" The Doctor hung his head, still quivering.

"What…?" The Master was beyond confused by now. "…Doctor, the' bloody hell are you goin' on about? You _knew_ I came back.

"I did…?"

Something seemed to snap in The Doctor's head, shifting him back into sanity for a blissful moment, enough time to register the miracle that had just happened.

It hit him like a stray cricket ball.

Of course.

The Master thought _he_ was the _real_ Doctor. He didn't know about Donna. He didn't know about the metacrisis. To The Master, he was genuine. He was pure.

But obviously he wasn't, because he was human. The Master should have figured that out by now. Soon he'd learn the truth, and then The Doctor would be done for. He'd spill his secret, and die a wretched, worthless, feeble death; At the hands of his best enemy. His most horrible, most precious friend.

Unless…

An idea struck him.

Oh. Oh, yes. This was brilliant. This was _fantastic._

Shaking his head, he was huddled against the dust, staring up at The Master with piteous brown eyes. "I don't remember."

The Master stared back, absorbing the new information. This brought light to a lot of things, but at the same time, created twice as many questions that needed answering. How had this happened? Was it an accident, or intentional? And if so, who did this to him? And how long had he been like this? Weeks? Months? Years, even? It sure looked like it, judging from a small number of grey hairs protruding from his scalp.

Suddenly, he seemed to notice something. It had been several minutes since he had taken a good, long breath. He had always relied too much on his lung reserve, often forgetting to breathe altogether in situations that grabbed his attention, such as this one. But now, as he inhaled, he noticed two things.

The first being the absence of The Doctor's scent. Not just his scent, but the scent associated with any Time Lord, something akin to that of honeysuckle, was not present.

The second thing was that replacing it, was an all-too familiar _stench_.

He smelled like a human.

Scrunching up his nose, glaring at his fallen foe, he advanced towards him. The Doctor looked nervous, almost scared, but he did not have the strength to pull away; or perhaps simply chose not to, when The Master leaned his head in against his chest.

_Thump._

_Thump._

He waited for two more beats; waited for the noise that he knew would startle him into thinking the drums had returned.

But there were only two.

He pulled away, slowly, staring at The Doctor in some sort of angry shock, who in turn seemed more tense than he had been the whole evening.

"You're _human._" The Master growled the words in blatant disgust. He hated humans. He hated them with a burning passion, hotter then the largest sun, and now The Doctor, _his_ Doctor, was one of them.

He grabbed a fistful of his shirt, pulling him inches away from his face.

"Change back." He hissed.

"I can't." The Doctor stuttered.

"_CHANGE BACK!_" This time he shouted, spit flying ungraciously in the process.

"I Can-"

But The Doctor did not get to finish his sentence, as The Master had slammed him against a trash bin, and was now rummaging furiously through his pockets. "Where's your watch?" He snarled, teeth bared. "Where the bloody _hell_ is your watch?"

"That's not it." The Doctor panted, trying to force The Master off of him. "I didn't do this!"

The Master growled, picking The Doctor up by the scruff of his neck to look him in the eye. "What do you mean? Who was it, then?"

The Doctor considered, Eyeing his savior carefully as he attempted to swallow the sickness building up in his throat.

He couldn't afford to make mistakes. He had to do this carefully.

"I don't know…"

Simple enough. When in doubt, deny, deny, deny.

With a final growl, and a kick to The Doctor's knee for good measure, he finally let go. Standing up to observe his surroundings, he paced in a small circle, fists clenching and un-clenching in aggravated stress.

This was so wrong.

Even for his worst enemy, who he would pay to see tied to the bottom of the totem pole, this was just too shameful. It was far too degrading, too madly, ferociously sickening, too…

Perfect.

Because The Doctor was alone.

He was feral, savage. On the brink of insanity, like a wild animal needing to be tamed. He was wounded, and broken, and so deliciously alone. He was backed into a corner, with no one to depend on.

No one but The Master.

He grinned to himself, fists forming into widespread salutations, and he spun around to look at the crumpled form of a man that lay weak on the ground.

He did not move, as The Master walked slowly toward him, stopping to hover over him in a confident air, his blue coat falling in long strides around him. More weak than ever, it surprised The Master that The Doctor would be the one to break the silence.

"Help me." He pleaded.

The Master's grin faded, ears falling numb on the words that had been said. "Pardon?" He asked in a mock tone, bending over a bit with his hand pressed to his ear.

The Doctor fought for breath, almost as hard as he appeared to be fighting for mere consciousness.

"You can't move." He breathed, eyes flickering to The TARDIS. "My TARDIS is gone. It was taken from me. You're stuck, like me."

The Master's eyes shifted to the blue box, then back to The Doctor, who continued his plea.

"Take me with you." His voice was barely audible now, coming in hoarse rasps. "And I'll fix it. I'll give you absolute freedom. But you _have_ to take me with you."

The Master seemed to consider this, eyeing the Doctor with an almost warning expression. Slowly, he cracked his neck, and his eyes once again wandered from TARDIS to Doctor, lost in contemplation. But the whole time, not once Did The Doctor's eyes leave him.

His gaze finally landed back on The Doctor, and he bit his lip as a devious grin found it's nesting place upon his frown. "Deal."

Oh, how glorious this was, to finally have The Doctor within his clutches.

He'd caught him.

The Doctor's eyes fluttered, and his vision blurred at the comprehension that The Master, fool that he was, had _actually_ accepted.

At last, his final ounce of strength left him, and he collapsed into the dust, unconscious; but not before a final reflection rang loud throughout his mind.

'_I've caught you.'_

_

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **This chapter is a bit shorter than the ones prior to it, my apologies. But since it mostly consisted of dialogue and only had one scene to focus on, it was bound to happen. This was, by far, the hardest chapter to write so far. I spent a lot of time contemplating what to keep and what to take out, and how they should react to one another. There were more lines I wanted to fit in to their conversation, but I then realized that it would be better to gradually have those things answered as the story progressed. I had a lot of trouble keeping them in character (even though they're both slightly OOC throughout the whole story) so please bear with me, it shouldn't be this bad in the next few chapters.


	6. I need a Doctor!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Doctor Who

Modern Crusaders

Chapter 6

"_If I had to  
I would put myself right beside you  
So let me ask  
Would you like that?__Would you like that?_

_And I don't mind  
If you say this love is the last time  
So now I'll ask  
Do you like that?__Do you like that?_

_Try to find out what makes you tick.  
As I lie down  
Sore and sick.  
Do you like that?__Do you like that? _

_There's a fine line between love and hate.  
And I don't mind.  
Just let me say that  
I like that  
I like that…"_

Diary of Jane- Breaking Benjamin

* * *

A newborn TARDIS was rarely a convenient thing.

Like all newborns, they needed an enormous amount of love and care; to be fed and cleaned, and allowed a proper amount of time in which they could rest.

The Master knew this, so he should not have been surprised to find that his TARDIS, in much need of sleep, refused to dematerialize; if only to transport them to Cardiff.

Fine then, let her go hungry. See if he cared.

He growled, slamming his fist on the console in frustration. This only caused a searing pain to resonate throughout his knuckles, and he shook his hand in an unspoken scream.

Why could nothing go right for a change?

Still rubbing his hand as he griped, he walked over to the door that would lead him out of the console room, stepping over The Doctor's unconscious body in the process.

Being a newborn TARDIS, it was expected that there would be no furniture to lay the ill-struck human on; but he couldn't really say he cared either way. The floor suited him.

Still, he'd have to wake up soon.

After treating the wound to his leg as best as he could, The Master had dragged The Doctor into the console room, where he was able to get a better look at him.

His appearance was even worse up close, a horrid mess of fabric mixed with a vile stench. But what The Master was even more alarmed to discover, was that beneath his tattered clothes, his body was even more shredded, skin and bones stretching over each other in a fine dance.

It had to have been days since The Doctor had eaten. Maybe even weeks. To be honest, The Master was surprised that he wasn't dead.

Which was why The Doctor had to wake up.

So that he could fix his TARDIS, before he ran out of energy.

Then The Master would let him die.

"Water…"

The Master froze, halfway through the door. Slowly, he turned around to face his friend.

The Doctor was still on his back, but his head was turned to face The Master, his eyes glossy and heavy, sweat dripping off his brow.

"Water…" He repeated.

"Great." The Master scoffed. "You're delusional. I don't have any."

But his feet were already carrying him instinctively towards the main door, and soon he was back in the junkyard, running (quite literally, despite his wound) towards any source that might provide him with some good old fashioned H2O.

He could not say he cared that The Doctor was dying, or that he was even ill, for that matter. But he was, dare he admit is, sort of…gah, _helpless_ without him. He needed him well.

Finally, at the back of an old brick building, he found a water faucet. Scooping up an old beer bottle someone had thrown, he poured the water into it.

This was going to be a long night.

* * *

Fetch water. Fetch water. Fetch water.

That had been a perfect description of The Master's purpose in life these past few hours. Fetch water.

Because The Doctor was sweating it out by the gallons.

He was shivering violently under The Master's new coat, soiling it with his murk. The Master glared down at him as he sat close, resting on one arm. The Doctor's eyes were almost white, shallow gasps escaping his lips as he fought for control over his body. The Master did not even need to feel his forehead to know that he was stricken with a deathly fever. How did you heal a sick human? He had no idea.

But he knew that The Doctor needed more than water. He needed nourishment, so at the first sign of daylight he headed out again.

Still equipped with the money he had stolen earlier, he was able to purchase a thermos of clam chowder from a local diner. The thought crossed his mind that he should have stolen the entire pot, but why go to unnecessary effort? The Doctor would probably throw it all up anyway.

Which he did.

All over The Master.

Who took the opportunity to slam his head onto the console, knocking him unconscious.

This was going to be a long day; he knew. And as he reluctantly nursed the man back to health, he found himself wishing that The Doctor were here.

What a funny thing to wish for something that you already had.

"Master…"

"I'm here you rancid, nasty little-"

"Thank you…"

The Master snorted, a small smile forming in spite of it. "Don't thank me, Doctor. I'm most likely to kill you as soon as this is all over."

"I won't regenerate."

The Master raised his eyebrows at him. "Well that's the point, isn't it? I expected you to remind me that I can't kill you because I-" he motioned quotation marks with his fingers "_need_ you."

At that he drew his knees up to his elbows, trying to find a comfortable sitting position on the floor; an effort that had proved impossible in the 3 days they had been in each other's company. It took a while for The Doctor to reply.

"I figured it didn't need saying."

A smirk. "Yes. Well. Can you move yet?"

The Doctor stared at him, eyes still somewhat glassed over. "I don't know."

"Well do me a favor and try, yeah?" The Master jumped to his own feet, rocking on his heels as he hovered over The Doctor, one foot on each side of him. "Try getting up without my help. I wouldn't want to hinder your stubborn ass."

"You're so gracious." The Doctor coughed the words, his voice raspy, as he struggled to roll over, arms pushing him up off the ground in strangled heaves. Managing to crawl onto his knees, he tried to hoist himself up by the TARDIS console, but found he did not have the strength; at which The Master let a loose hand slide around his waist, helping to support him into a standing position.

The Doctor seemed to welcome the aid, finally leaning against the console as he managed to find his ground.

"Better?" The Master complained.

"Much."

"Can I remove my hand now?"

"Yeah, I think so…" The Doctor clutched at the console, his knees shaking as he fought to stay upright, heaving with each shallow breath. It seemed the smallest movement caused him great exertion, as the sweat was raining down his face in heavy streams.

The Master seemed disappointed at this, and clutching at his hair in frustration, he made his way out into the junkyard, soon coming back with a rusted wheelchair.

"Here ya go, Dorothy, in you go."

"I don't need a-"

"Sit." The Master grabbed The Doctor's shoulders, forcing him into the chair. "Now fix these damn controls so we can get off this bloody rock."

The Doctor coughed. "Press that button."

The Master blinked, staring at where The Doctor was pointing. "This button?"

The Doctor nodded, to which The Master pushed it in.

Nothing Happened.

"Now what?" He was growing impatient.

"Take your-" another cough. "Screwdriver and-"

Suddenly The Master lunged at the chair, wheeling The Doctor into the nearest wall. He did not look frightened at The Master, merely surprised.

The Master growled, spit flying in The Doctor's face as he raved. "YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT THE ONLY REASON I'VE BEEN STUCK ON EARTH THIS WHOLE TIME IS BECAUSE OF A BLOODY LOOSE SCREW?!"

The Doctor sniffed. "Well it worked, didn't it?"

The Master pointed at him warningly. "You're clever. You're bloody _infuriating_, but you're clever..."

This seemed to brighten The Doctor's spirit.

"Don't let me _ever_ catch you being clever again!" And with that The Master ran back to the console, smiling widely as he applied his screwdriver to the knob. In a matter of minutes he had set the coordinates, and they were off on their first journey.

"Cardiff, here we come!" The Master exclaimed.

The Doctor frowned. He could not say he was looking forward to seeing Jack again, and he was positive that Jack would not exactly welcome The Master with open arms. With any luck, they would be able to keep their heads low, and go unnoticed.

If only he knew how lucky he was.

* * *

"It's empty…" The Doctor stared at the scanner, The Master enjoying his Chinese as he lounged on the sofa he had dragged in the night before.

"Give it up, Doctor." He spoke with a mouthful of rice. "Your little groupies have obviously hit the can. Dead. Caput. All those little earth sayings."

The Doctor shook his head. "Where was I during all of this?" There was an anger in his voice that The Master mistook for one of guilt, added with the frustration of not having his memories.

"Maybe you were the one who caused it?" He offered, sticking a piece of pork into his mouth. It didn't really taste like pork to him, but what did he know? Where he came from pigs flew over the mountains in flocks for migration, and on top of that he grew up living off pills. Who should he be to judge human cuisine?

Still…

"Stop it!" The Doctor spat obviously annoyed.

"Oh ho ho!" The Master grinned, munching on his food. "Have I hit a nerve?"

"You're about to hit one! C'mon Jack, where are you?" He gave the scanner a good punch.

The Master frowned. "Oi! TARDIS abuse; not allowed!"

"You _hypocrite._" The Doctor wheeled himself over to a different part of the console. "I don't understand…he wouldn't just leave…"

"Your little boyfriend get sick of you, did he?"

"Sod off."

"I'll tell you one thing, Doctor." The Master put down his carton of rice. "This new human body of yours, it's kinda feisty."

"Wait till I'm walking."

"Hmm." The Master stood up, walking over to join him at the console. "If you live that long."

"We'll see." The Doctor leaned back in his chair, leaving The Master to the controls as he propped his feet up on the console.

This was good.

With Torchwood gone, he was in the clear of any alien intervention. The fewer people who knew about his true circumstances, the better.

But Jack was just one person checked off the list. He still had others he needed to look out for. Martha, and Mickey; sweet Sarah and her little Luke, where the hell did he come from? Not to mention Donna, of all people.

But then again, now that he thought about it…

Well, if he were him, what would he have done?

Probably erased her memories. Or killed her.

Nah, he'd have erased her memories.

So that was two off the list.

But there were still people who he needed to avoid…

…_Or dispose of._ A little voice in his head rang.

No.

Avoid.

Definitely avoid.

"So." The Master rubbed his hands together, breaking The Doctor out of his trance. "We're all fueled up, where do you want to go first?"

The Doctor smirked a little. "You're the captain."

"And you'll do well to remember it."

And with that, The Master pulled down the dematerilization lever. "Off we go."

But before they knew it, The TARDIS had started to spin out of control. Faster and faster through the vortex they flew, spiraling in any and every direction. They could not even move the pressure was so great, and as their world seemed to cave in around them, their screams falling on deaf ears, a sound resonated from somewhere deep within the TARDIS.

_Ding._

_Ding._

_Ding._

_Ding._

It was the Cloister bell.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Sorry for the super late update, guys! I've had serious writers block; I almost didn't find the will to write this chapter, so I apologize if it sucks. It should be easier now that I have them off on their travels together; the story will be more episodic now I think.

The mention of The Master living off pills comes from the classic episode "The Invasion of Time" when it was revealed that a time lord (presumably all time lords) had never tasted flesh, and got most of their nutrition from little colored capsules. This is supports in one of the first doctor's stories, when he and his granddaughter, Susan, seem to eat out of a machine that produces little square mush that tastes like anything you want it to.

For those of you who don't know about Torchwood, where have you been? Go watch it!

As for the cloister bell…oh where have you been?

Also, I'm sorry that this chapter was so short. It was a difficult chapter to write, with a difficult subject. Like I said though, it should be easier from this point on; and I'll try to update more frequently.


	7. Topsy Turvy

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Doctor Who.

Modern Crusaders

Chapter 7

"_Slowly out of line  
And drifting closer in your sights  
So play it out I'm wide awake  
It's a scene about me  
There's something in your way  
And now someone is gonna pay  
And if you can't get what you want  
Well it's all because of me"_

You're Gonna Go Far, Kid- The Offspring

* * *

_Ding._

_Ding._

_Ding._

_Ding._

"We're gonna crash!" The Doctor clung to the console, his legs having caved in beneath him long before. Further off he could see his wheelchair being smashed repeatedly against the wall, several parts disengaging themselves in the process.

"No shit, Omega!" The Master growled, slamming his fingers on any button or switch that might stop them from plummeting to their deaths.

This received a stern glance from the other man; or what he hoped appeared stern, as he was sure he was going to lose his lunch. "It's not Omega's fault that he-"

"Oh hush." The Master waved a hand at him, a bad mistake as he had been using it to keep himself steady. Crashing to the floor, he cursed, slamming his fist down on the dematerialization switch as many times as gravity would allow him.

_Ding._

_Ding._

_Ding._

_Ding._

"Let me try." The Doctor slurred, fighting ever so valiantly not to regurgitate.

This wasn't good. He'd come this far, his plan couldn't be foiled now. Not by a damn time distortion! Regardless of whether the universe was ending or not, this had to end now.

The Master pointed an accusing finger at him, just barely keeping himself steady. "_Oh_ no! I've _seen_ your piloting skills, Doctor, and you're not getting anywhere near these controls!"

With the natural instinct to defend his self-image kicking in, The Doctor glared. "I've piloted myself through far more time storms than you, and lived to tell the tale!"

A smirk. "Yeah. Tell that to your sixth incarnation, Doctor. I'm sure he'd love to hear the tale!"

"Who told you about that?!" His jaw had practically reached the floor.

"The Rani." The Master muttered, going back to work on his futile attempts to set right their vessel.

The Doctor's face fell. "Oh, sweet Rani, how I miss her…"

The Master could not contain his laughter at such a statement. With every second of knowing this post-time-war-Doctor, it had become more and more evident that some screws had become loose in his head. Friends had become enemies, enemies had become friends, and somewhere at the core of his hearts, there lay a spore. Within it there was darkness, and a cruelty not unmatched to The Master himself. He could sense it, slowly, quietly, eating away at The Doctor's subconscious and trying to make its way to the surface. There was no warning him, and he wondered if The Doctor could sense it, too, that something was wrong. Something had changed.

But then who was he to comment about missing ones enemies after they have left you? Did he, The Master, not frequently call upon those he had killed, hoping for a challenge? For someone, _anyone_, as worthy a foe as this human standing beside him? Who was _always_ standing beside him, even when against him?

It didn't matter, because hypocrisy was not something The Master had ever been known to acknowledge, and he continued to pick at The Doctor's emotions as best he could.

"Doctor, you miss everything with two hearts and a-"

Suddenly the TARDIS let out a final jerk, thrusting her passengers to their respective places on the floor, before stopping completely.

Everything was still.

Brown eyes met the ceiling, and The Doctor lay frozen on his back, afraid to move. "We've stopped…" He whispered, not daring to even breathe should it somehow set them off again.

The Master, while more comfortably strewn about on his stomach, wasted no time in hopping to his feet; several remarks about stating-the-obvious reaching his companion's ears.

Slowly, The Doctor managed to pull himself into a sitting position; but not without much pain. It seemed the adrenaline rush was dying down, and he was beginning to feel his lethargy creep back into his veins.

Oh well.

At least he was alive.

"What does it say…?" He looked up at The Master, whose head was buried into the scanner.

Seemingly ignoring him, The Master continued his tinkering. Admittedly, The Doctor felt jealous, but he knew when he was at someone's mercy, and now was not the time to have captain envy.

Finally, The Master seemed to acknowledge his question; but "Why are you whispering?" Was not a very satisfactory reply.

"Wellll…" The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck, eyes locked on the scanner. "It's a bit quiet in here, really…"

A pause.

"Too quiet."

The Master snorted. "I've got no time for your dramatics right now." He had finally managed to get the lights back on, and gave the console a little pat before turning his attention back to the Gallifreyan writing on the scanner screen.

After a good thirty more seconds of silence, The Doctor's patience gave way, and he finally sneered up at The Master, all the while trying to pull himself to his feet by the console.

"Are you just going to ignore me…?" There was an evident pout in his voice, which The Doctor really hoped would not be misinterpreted as something like…

But it earned the other man's attention, and he looked mildly amused at the way The Doctor's body visibly trembled; threatening to cave in under its own weight, his bones brittle and muscles weak.

"Well if it upsets you that much…" And he made his way to go retrieve The Doctor's battered wheelchair.

"No, no no no! Not _that!_" If The Doctor had had a free palm, it would have reached his face. Ignoring The Master's confused stare, he struggled to make his way to the scanner. Finally The Master seemed to catch on, and before The Doctor had even managed half way, he was leaning against the screen, a smug grin nestled familiarly on his features.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" The Doctor glowered at him, panting at his exertion. This was, to say the least, beyond embarrassing. He knew The Master liked him weak. It was the most amusing thing in the whole damn universe to him.

He'd like to see The Master crawling on the floor for once.

Perhaps he could poison his food.

"I'll tell you what." The Master rocked on his heels, grin never faltering. "You make it to this side of the console, and I'll let you have a go at the controls." He patted the creature again, eyes wandering to The Doctor's trembling legs. "On one condition…"

"Master, this is no time for-"

"You have to do it on your own two feet. No help from me, no help from the TARDIS. Should you fail to keep your footing and collapse, you automatically lose. You have one minute to complete this task."

"Master-"

"Starting now, Doctor." His smile was wider than ever.

Very much seething with rage, The Doctor slowly, carefully, let his hands leave the console; transferring them to his knees for support.

"Stand straight, Doctor. 40 seconds."

This was humiliating. Already he had thought of four ways he could get back at him, three being relatively harmless and one that was sure to induce a regeneration. Had he had a time lord brain it probably would have been more akin to four hundred. But he'd have time for revenge later, if he could just…

"30 seconds."

Straightening his back, he wobbled heavily as his first step forward nearly sent him crashing to the floor. But he maintained his balance, and soon he had taken three steps; the scanner (and The Master, who was looking sickeningly appealing to lean on, damn it all) almost within arms reach.

"10 seconds, Doctor." He was practically giddy with amusement.

Breathing heavily through his nose, teeth clenched at the man in frustration, The Doctor finally reached the scanner, resting an arm on it but making a point not to loose his own two legs.

The Master beamed, and once again made his way over to the wheelchair. "There now, see? That wasn't so bad, now was it?"

He received no reply, and the Doctor glared at his reflection in the scanner screen. It had been weeks since he'd seen what he looked like, and the event was far from welcome.

"All right, Doc?" The Master smiled, having crept, quite spider-like, behind The Doctor, wheelchair ready to relieve the man of his shaking body.

"I don't need it." The Doctor growled at the scanner, eyes unblinking.

"Yes you do. Down you go." The Master grabbed his shoulders, forcing him into the chair without, he noted, much effort on his part.

Although still stubborn and very much defiant, The Doctor welcomed the supporting structure. His head fell back against the dirty fabric, and his eyes closed in relaxation, soaking up the comfort it provided like a sponge.

He did not have long to rest, though, as The Master's elbow found resting place upon The Doctor's head, supporting what felt like his entire body weight.

"Ow, stop that!" The Doctor's hand flew to the top of his head, where he knew there would be a bruise beneath the greasy brown tresses.

"You've come this far, Doctor, aren't you going to claim your prize?" He motioned to the scanner, now leaning against the wheelchair rather than his adversaries cranium.

Still rubbing his scalp, The Doctor glared at him, and then turned his attention to the scanner. After a few seconds of staring at the Gallifreyan text, he was almost horrified to discover that he could not, Rassilon be shamed, read it anymore. But his panic was eased when, upon concentrating very, _very_ hard, he was able to pull the recognition out of his mind, somewhere in one of those dark places that it was so hard to maneuver around in these days.

It took even longer to form the information in his mind, having to pick at each circle and arch individually, reforming it in his brain like a delicate puzzle (made of something like glass or rice paper, or maybe glass paper from the planet Knasafrass.)

Finally, though, he managed it. The Master was obviously growing impatient, and seemed to be relieved when The Doctor revealed his (rather obvious) findings.

"We're in no place…" He stared at the screen.

"Yep." The Master nodded.

"In no time…"

"You betchya. Isn't it amazing?" His voice was positively dripping with sarcasm.

Unperturbed by his derision, The Doctor started typing away at the keys.

"Alternate universe?" The Master offered, seemingly growing very bored and very impatient.

"No void stuff."

The Master arched an eyebrow down at the other man. "Don't you mean voidesov?"

"No I mean void stuff." _Click click click click._ He wished his mind would work faster.

The Master stared over his shoulder. "I really don't think jiggery pokery is going to get us out of this one, Doctor."

"Oh shut up and let me work."

* * *

"I can't believe you named a cat after your wife." The Doctor was sprawled out on the sofa, Lucy having finally shown herself to them in the three hours that their TARDIS had been left immobile.

The feline was currently perched on his chest, enjoying the absent minded strokes around her ears and chin.

"I mean, what if she finds out?" He half heartedly glanced over at The Master, who was pouring over the controls in frustration, The Doctor having promptly worked himself into fainting on his first (and last) attempt.

"That won't be happening, Doctor." He failed to mention that it was because she was, in fact, dead. He pulled at one of the knobs with a bit too much force, causing the TARDIS to zap him as a punishment.

Cursing, he brought his hand to his mouth, sucking on his forefinger in annoyance. This was getting him no where.

A long silence.

"You killed her, didn't you…?"

The Master continued his work, not bothering to answer for quite some time; hell, he didn't even bother to freeze at having been found out. When he did speak his voice was quiet and numb, devoid of any remorse, but also devoid of any pleasure at the topic at hand.

"She killed me first."

The Doctor continued to stare at his back, his eyes tired and contemplative. He knew The Master did not like to talk about such things. He knew, because he himself was cold and hard; harder than a stone rose.

But they were trapped, and it was too quiet, and he got some kind of sick pleasure out of trying to make The Master actually feel something. The Master might enjoy physically humiliating his enemies, but for The Doctor it was all about the psychological aspect of things. The Master's mind was a fascinating one; each regeneration different from the last and yet they all held the same desire to conquer; some more insane then others, yes, but still the same painting, copied over by many different artists in many different styles. The painting was black, in The Doctor's vision. Pure black, with a tiny white spec somewhere on the canvas; but each time the spec was in a different corner. It was that little white spec that The Doctor clung to, all these long, long years, his eyes automatically drawn to the one part of the canvas that was different from the rest.

"She loved you, you know." His voice was quiet, barely audible to the human ear, but The Master could hear just fine.

"I highly doubt that." Another jab at the controls.

"She did."

"And I suppose you'd know?" This time the pushing of twelve buttons simultaneously.

"Yes, I would, actually." The Doctor had entered la la land, and you could see on his dazed features that he was remembering a very specific event. "She told me so herself…"

"Good for you."

"Said she'd made a made a mistake when she pulled that trigger."

"She certainly did- wait, what?" He spun around to face The Doctor, who was still staring off into space.

"Doctor…?" His tone was quiet, but demanding, all the same sounding unsure of himself. "When did she say this?"

The Doctor didn't reply for a long time, then he finally tilted his head to face The Master.

The Master in turn stared back, trying to work things out in his head. "Don't tell me…no, you didn't? You were the one who-"

"I wanted an apology." His voice was louder now, firm in its reasoning.

The Master raised his eyebrows, not sure at what he could say. "I see."

A long pause, and he turned back to the console, trying to immerse himself in his work, but all the more curious.

"Did you receive one…?"

"Hm?" The Doctor was tired now, drifting in and out of sleep, his attempts to stroke the cat becoming more and more weak.

"An apology. Did she give you one?" He stopped his fumbling for a moment, eager for the reply.

The Doctor seemed to be considering what exactly that reply would be, and in the end settled on a simple "No."

This made The Master turn back to face him. "But you just said she regretted it!" His arms had outstretched themselves, blue coat flowing around him in the fast motion, expression annoyed and ever fanatical.

"I said she said she'd made a mistake. I didn't say she felt remorse, nor did I receive an apology from her."

"You said she loved me." His arms had dropped to his sides now, and his face was scrounged up in a cynical mope.

"I did." The Doctor voiced his acknowledgement. "I said she loved you. I didn't say love."

This obviously wasn't the answer The Master wanted to hear, and he glared at The Doctor a long while, fists clenched. The Doctor stared back; unafraid, almost accusing eyes locking onto The Master's own. It made The Master furious. Just whose side was he on?

Finally their staring contest met its demise, when The Doctor's eyes slid shut and he buried his face into the arm rest, Lucy meowing in annoyance at having lost her back scratcher.

Fuming, The Master once again averted his attention to the console. "You and your human grammaticism…"

He received no reply, and after several minutes of staring at the console, having exhausted all possible remedies to the problem that he could think of, he slammed his fists down on the controls in frustration, then proceeded to bury his head into his elbows.

* * *

Twelve Hours passed. Not remotely enough time for a Time Lord to be concerned, but The Doctor had long since lost his patience (and a bit of his nerve) with the notion of them being stranded in no-when.

Weak as he was, the need to do something instead of just sitting there was getting the best of him, and likewise getting the best of The Master's tolerance. He had endured forty-five minutes of The Doctor practically begging him (how unexpected and absolutely exquisite it was) to be allowed the use of his laser screwdriver. After finally giving in, taking care as to set the dangerous bits of the device for his use only, The Master had given it to him, only to be thrown into a techno-babble duel with The Doctor over what use disassembling his wheelchair could possibly provide to them.

After doing just that (having won that round) The Doctor had assembled something strikingly close to a perfect time-space-vortex-manipulator, but was disappointed to find that it did nothing to help cure The TARDIS of her immobility.

Ignoring the pouting human, The Master had then snatched back his Laser screwdriver, The Doctor's requests to be allowed to put his wheelchair back together falling on deaf ears. On top of this Lucy had gotten into the container of (now sour) clam chowder, the last of their food. Inevitably she got her head stuck in the thermos, and The Master had to chase her down fourteen corridors in order to free her, The Doctor clearly too incapacitated to do so himself. Even if it his was his fault. Somehow.

Then came round two of their squabble, when The TARDIS, though she did not move, turned completely upside down, both passengers landing on the ceiling. This should have been physically impossible, but nevertheless it happened, their argument consisting mainly on the fact that there shouldn't have been a ceiling to land on, but not without pointing the finger at each other for being on the ceiling in the first place.

After flipping herself back right again, they had arrived at round Three, on the twelfth hour. The Doctor was sick of being sick. He wanted to push every damn button on that console until they started moving again, and The Master was now pointing the Laser Screwdriver at him, very seriously threatening to age him into his early hundreds.

His last attempt to shut The Doctor up and it worked. The Doctor scooted himself backwards to the sofa, never taking his eyes off the screwdriver, and seemed to slide into temporary, if begrudged, submission.

Only when he was sure of this submission did The Master lower his weapon, he himself sitting on the floor, leaning against the console.

They stared at each other for a long time, each one not really seeing the other; lost in their own thoughts. They were both mentally exhausted; the human physically, even, and were no closer to finding an answer than they were twelve hours ago. Something had to give, and it had to give soon, or The Master was sure they were both going to lose what little sanity they still clung to.

"I've been in situations before, but nothing like this." The Doctor shook his head, his voice quiet, his gaze distant. "Always fixed it, or I was lucky. Not anymore though."

There was no reply for him this time, not even a late one. No snide remark to confirm or dismiss his claims. Just silence. A very long, agonizing time in which even the TARDIS seemed to have stopped breathing.

And then they heard it.

_Vwooorp._

_Vwooorp._

_Vwooorp._

_Vwooorp._

They were on course.

The Master leapt to his feet, rushing over to the scanner. "We're accelerating!" He shouted, clapping his hands together, grin widespread across his face. The Doctor had no smile to accompany him, only a perplexed bewilderment as he clung to the sofa, welcoming the familiar turbulence of their vessel.

"Oh ho ho, _yes_!" The Master beamed. "Hold on tight, Doctor! We're off!"

The Doctor continued to stare, not as easily convinced of their good fortune. It was almost as if…

But he shook the thought away, and voiced a small reply. "Aye aye, captain."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I know, I know! It's such a late chapter! Please forgive me, I'll try to be better about them. I wish writer's block didn't crush me so hard, but I'm glad I got this one finished. As always I'm worried about keeping them in character, so I apologize for any OOCness. Look forward to getting out of the TARDIS next time!


	8. Wind Against Stone

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Doctor Who.

Modern Crusaders

Chapter 8

"_It's a new world_

_It's a new start_

_It's alive with the beating of young hearts_

_It's a new day_

_It's a new plan_

_I've been waiting for you_

_Here I am"_

Here I am- Bryan Adams.

* * *

"We're on Svartos." The Doctor gleamed down at the scanner, eyebrows raised with a funny, childlike grin. The Master had not seen that smile since encountering him, and though he would never, ever admit it, he was glad to have it back.

"Never heard of it." He clicked away at the keys, glancing over at the other man with mild interest, who seemed to be gaining in strength.

Having made his way over to The Master prior to their materialization, he now only need lean a little on the console, his feet supporting him the rest of the way. He wondered for a moment if The Doctor had not, in fact, been faking his whole infirmity; and had simply forgotten that he was supposed to be motionless. After all, this regeneration of his (human though it may be) had the attention span of a Vortasaur.

Then again, he wasn't sure The Doctor would go so far as to fake vomiting all over The Master. He may be an idiot, but he wasn't stupid.

He decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The Doctor's eyes shifted to The Master, eyeing him up and down, as if seeing him for the very first time. "Course you have. Svartos. Tidally locked! Big white planet- full of myth and legend and concession stands. We came here when we were kids, remember?

"Can't say that I do." His eyes flicked back to the scanner.

"We had iceys."

"Nope."

"Moobleberry iceys."

"Nada."

"Blimey." The Doctor scratched at his neck, staring down at The Master with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth, clearly insulted. "You really have a selective memory, don't you?"

He received no reply, as per usual their discussions these days, and turned his attention to the scanner. "Fair play to you, it's been a while since I was here last. I'd say, oh, 300 years?"

"Earth years, no doubt."

"Yes. Earth years. Relative, of course. Thing is, the whole dark side of the planet was actually a gigantic prison ship. Friend of mine, Glitz-"

"Oh I know him."

"Yeah, you would wouldn't you? He flew off with it." The Doctor did a little twirl with his hand over The Master's head. "Him and Mel; old companion of mine, terrible scream, actually went a bit deaf in that regeneration; but they flew! Out to the stars, taking the whole ship with them!"

"Fascinating."

"It was! But they also took all the concession stands…"

"Doctor." The Master sighed, wishing he himself might go deaf.

"Hm?"

"You said this was a tidally locked planet?"

The Doctor scratched his head again, making The Master very aware that he would have to scan for lice. "Yeah, far as I know, why?"

The Master pointed at the scanner. "So why is it in orbit?"

* * *

"_Round, round, roundward we go  
roundward we crow  
and roundward we grow_

_Round, round, roundward we fly  
roundward we live  
and roundward we die."_

_

* * *

_

And so the children sang.

"I'm not going out there." The Doctor's arms were folded against his chest, defiant in his place next to the console.

Across from him, The Master stood equally stubborn. "Why? So you can; oh, I dunno." He motioned at the space around him. "Steal The TARDIS while I'm gone? I know your tricks, Doctor, I've known you for far too long. They won't work on me." He lowered his voice to a deadly whisper. "Not this time."

The Doctor rolled his eyes, "Oh, right, as if I _would_. Really, Master, you don't know me at all. I'm not going _out_ there because there's obviously something wrong with this planet and it's none of our concern."

Bewilderment spread across The Master's features. "You're _The Docto_r. It's _always_ your concern! When did you become such a pansy?"

"When I lost my ability to regenerate."

"Ahh, I see! I get it now!" The Master grinned manically. "So that's why you're always travelling with those humans! Little monkeys who couldn't regenerate if their lives depended on it, right? How many of them have died for you, Doctor, really? What was that one boys' name?" He brought his fingers to his chin, stroking the beard that wasn't there anymore. "Ah, let me think…Adric? How many others, Doctor? Were there more? Was it worth it? Were they _afraid_ to walk out the front door?"

"Stop it!" The Doctor seethed, breathing heavily in his poor attempt at self control.

But The Master continued to stab at him, speaking sardonically and slowly, like an inexpert parent scolding its child.

"Does it make you proud, Doctor, that he's dead? Did you teach him well?"

"I said stop it!"

"And poor little Nyssa of Traken. Oh, Doctor, if you only knew what happened to her. You should never have left her."

The Doctor froze, angry but caught off guard. They say ignorance is bliss, but ignorance was not something to be swimming in when The Master had the higher ground.

He couldn't speak, and so The Master spoke for him.

"You're a coward, Doctor. Those humans you love so much are better than you, if you can't even walk out that door. Did you think they felt safe, being with you? Did you think they were blind to the danger? No, Doctor. I'm afraid _not_. The stupid little rats followed you, but they did it knowing they might not come home that day.

You're a fool. And now you have the nerve to tell me that it's none of your concern? I don't _care_ if you're human, if you have any chance of regaining what you once were, you are coming with me. Right now. Otherwise I'd be happy to kill you; because like this, you're not even worthy to fight me."

He was inches from The Doctor's face now, and though he was admittedly shorter than the other man, he had managed to effectively tower over him.

"Well go on." He glared. "Prove me wrong." He held up his Laser Screwdriver so that it was the only thing separating them. "One flick of the switch and your brain gets roasted. And vainglorious I stand." He spread out his arms, as if he might hug his counterpart. "The Master, last of the Time Lords. The Doctor, dead at his feet. I'd love to hear what Miss Martha Jones has to say about _that._"

"Mrs." The Doctor finally mumbled.

The Master's arms dropped to his sides, what he thought as a rather convincing speech having been ruined. "I'm sorry?"

"Mrs." The Doctor repeated, drawing in a deep breath and exhaling it through his mouth rather loudly. "She was engaged, last time I saw her." He cleared his throat, looking at his feet rather than The Master, who was still very much put out about having lost his moment to shine.

"Tom Milligan, I think his name was. Odd fellow, bit of a beard…You'd like him!" He finally chanced a glance at The Master, trying to smile a bit; but it was rather hard as said captain was hovering over him very eerily now. Trapped against the console, The Doctor's eyes wandered to the weapon still gripped tightly in his hand.

Finally, after a long minute of overwrought stares, The Master stepped back. "Are you coming, then? Or do we have to go to the reception first?" He rolled his eyes, brandishing the screwdriver absentmindedly.

The Doctor smiled a bit. "Nah, she's saving me a piece of cake…do you mind putting that away now…?" He glanced nervously at the screwdriver, swallowing some built up flem that had been accumulating in the time taken for the prior rant.

The Master looked down at the object, still pointing it at The Doctor like a sword. "Well, if it scares you. Off we go then." He headed towards the door, screwdriver tucked safely in his pocket.

A meow, and he was required to jump 3 feet in order to avoid stomping on a small bundle of black fur, which had very artfully crept up behind him.

"No, Lucy, you can't come!" He pointed a finger at the cat, relieved at not having embarrassed himself by tripping over her. "Bad kitty. Bad, very bad kitty."

She meowed up at him, quite unconvinced of his argument.

Annoyed that the cat got better treatment than him, The Doctor strolled over to the door. Strolling being a relative term when you're still learning to walk.

For a while there he had been worried. Something was off, though. It was not like The Master to be the voice of reason, for anything, in any sort of situation, and he wasn't sure he was comfortable with it.

Had something changed, in the time that the real Doctor had been allotted to spend with him? Why was this new Master so keen that he be his old self? And on that note, he'd definitely have to start trying harder in order to pass off as just that. He couldn't have The Master getting suspicious, not when he had him wrapped around his finger so tightly.

Or was it the other way around? Was he just fooling himself? Could The Master know something he didn't?

His hand lingered on the door handle as he looked over his shoulder at the Time Lord vs. feline epic.

He needed to be more careful. He definitely, definitely needed to watch him.

"Are you coming…?" Lucy had made her way into The Master's arms and was now receiving incoherent coos whispered into her fur. Seeing this reminded The Doctor of the many films in which an evil villain kept company with a cat, always stroking it firmly as they carried out their transgression. Vaguely he wondered if this attachment was caused by the premise of unconditional love from the animal; but then was his own friendship with The Master not blatantly unconditional, if a little frayed around the edges?

Maybe he just missed his cheetah friends.

"Master…?" If they were going to venture on his insane attempts at universal conquest (as if The Doctor suspected anything less than just that) they might as well start now. And to be frank he didn't want to go out on his own (though no one needed to know that.)

"Yeah, yeah, impatient now that your pride has been bruised, Doctor?" Setting Lucy down, he skipped over to the door. Appearing as though he was about to exit, he suddenly twirled around; and before The Doctor knew it, had fastened a metal ring around his wrist.

"Oi!" The Doctor faltered, stumbling back in shock. "Where'd you get that?!"

"Pet shop." The Master grinned, holding up a small receiver in his hand. "Made a little trip while you were ill with fever. I'll admit I had to augment it a bit." He tilted his head. "But your humans are smart when they need to be."

The Doctor pulled at the bracelet, words flowing out of his mouth in rapid vexation. "Now Master, stop it. This isn't for humans, this is for dogs; now take it off!"

His advocate continued to grin. "Oh I don't think so. I can't have you running off, now can I?"

"Why?" The Doctor bristled. "I've got no transport; I'm not a threat to you! What could I possibly do that requires this?" He held up his hand for inspection.

"Everything."

"Take it off."

"Are you coming?" The Master was halfway out the door.

The Doctor scrambled, trying to move his legs faster than they would allow. "No, wait, damn it Master!" A curse emitted from under his breath. In his head, Donna's voice seemed torn between laughing at him and telling The Master off herself.

"What's my range-?!" He called out, just before receiving a sharp shock throughout his body. It was far from dangerous, even by human standards, but the pain was just unbearable enough that he could not cope, and found himself crawling out of the TARDIS in an effort to kill any distance between him and The Master.

Once within ten yards the pain subsided, and he was able to pull himself to his feet, using a twisted tree for support. The Master was just ahead him, standing on the edge of a precipice. With the heavy wind picking his coat up behind him, he surveyed the world around him, his right hand perched above his eyes.

The Doctor followed suit, his human eyes taking in another planet for the first time. It was a barren, rocky land. The ground, like the sky, was pure white, shaded with an underside of shale, almost mimicking the effect of black ice. It was, however, void of any snow, and the dead leaves billowing beneath his feet seemed to indicate the presence of an early autumn.

It was a strange thing for a planet that, at one time, had never seen four seasons.

But the wind was cold enough; howling through The Doctor's hair viciously at home, and he drew his arms around him in an effort to keep warm.

"That jumper does nothing for you, does it?" The Master scrunched up his nose, eyeing the dark fabric loose against The Doctor's torso. "Your hair is a mess, though…"

"No thanks to you." The Doctor grimaced, trying to will the static electricity from his earlier shock to subside.

"What do you think?" The blonde man rocked on his heels, hands burrowed firmly in his pockets as he overlooked the canyon below.

The Doctor drew his arms tighter around himself. It had to be sixty degrees Fahrenheit, at the most. "Well…" He pondered. "Definitely Cold."

"What would I do without your keen observations?"

"Keep buggering on?" The Doctor grinned a little, ignoring The Master's exasperated eye-roll.

"C'mon." The Master began to look for a foothold on the cliff. "We'd better get going if we're going to make it down by nightfall."

The Doctor looked stunned. "What? Hold on. You're not actually thinking about climbing down there, are you?"

He received a mischievous grin in return, which was about to disappear beneath the edge; for he was already making his way down. "As a matter of fact, I am, why do you ask?"

"I'm not going down there!" The Doctor indicated his distress with a wave of his hand.

The Master scrunched up his face in frustration. "Oh not this again-"

"I'm not doing it!"

A sigh. "All right, fine, up to you. But just so you know, the voltage on that bracelet of yours increases the farther we stray from each other, and right now, in case you haven't noticed, there's a fire going on down there, which most likely means there's a civilization. Now if you'll excuse me."

The Doctor fidgeted, getting as closed to the edge as he could in order to avoid being shocked. "Hold on, why do you even care? There's nothing for you down there! Even if there is a civilization, the last time I was here the summer colonies had only just discovered fire, you won't find technology, or-" He pondered, trying to fit himself into The Master's way of thinking. "Or even good food to eat! It's raw, it's filthy, it's- ow, ow, ow!"

The shock was enough to send him clambering down the cliff-side, a bad idea on all accounts as he soon lost his footing and began to tumble against the sharp rocks. The Master watched; half amused, half worried, as The Doctor tumbled off a particularly stretched formation, and was now hanging on for dear life, with nothing but empty space separating him from the ground far below.

He kicked and flailed, trying to find a foothold beneath him, but the incline was far too steep and any attempt proved more laborious than supportive.

"Master, help!" He at last gave in to the need for assistance.

The Master smirked, putting a free hand to his ear. "I'm sorry, Doctor? I don't believe I heard what you said?"

The Doctor growled. "I'm gonna fall!"

He watched as, smirking, The Master made his way down with ease. It had to be the cheetah blood in him.

Once there, he crouched down to better see his endangered friend. "And I suppose you want me to help you, is that it?" He sounded vaguely bored with this situation.

The Doctor glared. "Considering that I'm human and only have one life, _yes_, I would!"

"Say please."

"_Master!_"

"Say, "Please, Master."

A low growl emitted from The Doctor's throat, and as he kicked the open air beneath him, he very much wished it was The Master's groin. "Please, Master."

"And who, Doctor; is your Master, exactly?"

"_You_ are…"

"Very good." And with quite the accommodating grin, he took hold of The Doctor's wrists and began to drag him up to safety.

"Don't let me fall!" The Doctor had now taken the opportunity to glance over his shoulder and peer down at the world below.

"Oh don't get your knickers in a twist, I'm not gonna let you fall." The Master rolled his eyes, continuing to pull him up.

The brunette turned his head to face The Master, his legs still trying to find leverage. "Yeah, but how can I know that?"

This made The Master pause in his mission, and he stared down at his hands, wrapped firmly around The Doctor's own. "Well, do you trust me?"

There was a very long silence in which both of their eyes met, neither of them moving or shifting under the weight of their struggle. The Master's grip seemed to tighten with each second, and as he looked down at The Doctor, he could find no trace of dishonesty in the man's face.

"Not one bit."

And it was true.

* * *

It took them 3 hours to climb down the rock face, and though there had been many intervals of bickering and many of silence, they were both glad to reach solid ground again. Perhaps more so on The Doctor's part, as he promptly collapsed in relief, resisting any urge that he might have to kiss the sand beneath his feet.

"Tired, are we?" The Master raised an eyebrow, not sure whether to scoff or laugh at the human. In the end he decided that lightly kicking him in the side would suffice. "We're not done yet, Doctor." He pointed at the setting sun. "I don't know about you but I'm not becoming food for whatever creatures' prowl around here at night. Get your face out of the dirt and start walking, or I'm leaving without you."

The Doctor coughed, exhausted, but not in the mood for another shock from his bracelet. Slowly he pulled himself to his feet, and began to trudge forward. "I don't suppose you-"

But he was cut short by The Master grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling him sideways, just in time to dodge the spearhead of an impending arrow.

The Doctor whizzed around to glance at it, stumbling as his eyes fixed upon the place where it had wedged itself between two rocks. Hastily, he crawled behind The Master for protection, who seemed too keen on finding the source of the arrow to take notice of any such amusing behavior.

Backing up, though, it was evident he was aware of The Doctor's presence, and had soon pushed the man into a small crawlspace between two boulders, protected from above by the cliffs and from in front by The Master.

"Show yourself!" The Master called out. "Come along, children, don't be shy."

The Doctor felt tempted to sigh at The Master's usual cockiness, but was surprised when out from the shadows, there indeed stepped twelve children.

They were small; all of them. With skin so pale, their long white hair flowing amongst their shoulders in fine threads, that they blended into the scenery almost perfectly. This was only amplified by their clothes, however scarce they may be; white silk, tied around them halfheartedly with imperceptible thread. Peering Closer, The Doctor could see faint markings on their skin. Barely visible in the dim sunlight, the only thing he could derive from them was that they were natural stains, and that they, somehow, were familiar to him.

The eyes were the last thing he noticed. A vibrant yellow, they seemed to glow in the oncoming darkness; constant, unblinking, and unafraid.

All were armed. In their hands some wielded spears, others arrows. To The Doctor they looked fairly ordinary, but The Master could smell the poison on their tips.

Finally two of the children stepped forward, one boy and one girl; both appeared to hold the position of leader in this small clan, and when they spoke, it was in perfect resonance.

"_Stand aside, Gallifreyan."_

**Author's Notes: **Well, I'm getting back on track, guys! This has got to be one of the most fun chapters to write so far, and I'm glad to finally have them out of The TARDIS. I struggled a long time with whether or not to keep The Master's voice-of-reason-speech, and I know I'm treading on dangerous territory with it being possibly OOC, so I apologize for that.

Svartos was a planet visited by the seventh Doctor and his companion Mel in the classic serial "Dragonfire." The planet is tidally locked so that it does not rotate, but I am also going to assume it does not revolve around the sun. (which, it obviously is, now.) Once again, apologies for any inconsistencies.


End file.
